


Starvation

by HigherMagic



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Violence, Bottom Hannibal Lecter, Bottom Will Graham, Canon-Typical Violence, Car Sex, Caring Hannibal Lecter, Collars, Creampie, Dark Will Graham, Dubious Consent, Dubiously Consensual Blow Jobs, Frottage, Hannibal Lecter is a Cannibal, Hurt/Comfort, Knifeplay, Leashes, M/M, Murder, Murder Husbands, Past Molly Graham/Will Graham, Post-Canon, Post-Season/Series 03, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sexual Violence, Someone Help Will Graham, Top Hannibal Lecter, Top Will Graham, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Unsafe Sex, Will Graham is a Cannibal, ropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-08
Updated: 2018-11-08
Packaged: 2019-08-20 20:38:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 20,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16562744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HigherMagic/pseuds/HigherMagic
Summary: Hannibal presses his lips together, sighing through his nose as he lowers his hand, forces himself to pry his fingers away from the sweat-damp curl of Will's hair. He had simply meant to tuck it behind his ear, away from his face. Too close to his forehead. Too close to his neck. Hannibal knows touch-starvation, he has felt it since he turned himself in and that single embrace on the cliffs had only whetted his appetite and sharpened his fangs. Will's neck is caked with blood, his sore shoulders stiff with strain from helping Hannibal haul the body into their safehouse, to dissect and harvest for their meal."You're starving me," he whispers, and steps away.Will lets out a rough sound, eager and savage and shows his teeth when he smiles. "It's what we deserve."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> guys I wanna fucking //die// this was in no way what I expected to pump out the last two days.  
> in reference to the tags: I don't think a person can really consent if they're forcing themselves to do stuff to prove a point. this fic follows the timeline of some sexual healing but really the sex is a result of healing, not the other way around. it's not healthy, but Hannigram isn't exactly the healthiest ship in the world either.  
> idk I have a lot of feels about this but really I'm just glad it's done and I can be on my merry way. I hope you guys like it or that it at least causes you half as much pain as it caused me
> 
> based off this prompt: Something that shows Will dealing with trauma that affects his relationship with Hannibal/attempts at intimacy in a very direct way - like getting really uncomfortable when Hannibal touches his face because he did that right before gutting him, or having flashbacks to the ear tube being forced down his throat whenever he gags when trying to give head.

He cannot touch Will's stomach. That's where the scar is, that age-old welt that harbors so much pain, resentment, and anger between them. That single shred of time and space where everything had been flung, off-kilter, tumbling to wreckage soaked in Will's blood, in Abigail's blood, in Hannibal's tears.

He cannot touch Will's shoulders. Too much tension, there, knots of angry muscle that hiss at him like a snake.

He cannot touch Will's thighs. "When you carried me from Muskrat, when you undressed me and tucked me into bed, I wanted to be sick. I felt like Elise Nichols." Hannibal had left him alone for hours after that admission.

He cannot touch Will's forehead. The reason for that is obvious. The white line of that faded scar haunts him in his sleep – his recklessness, his behavior, blinded by rage and love and etched into something sharp and sickly under Bedelia's care. He had not seen her manipulation then. He does now.

He cannot touch Will's neck. Will goes utterly still when he tries, eyeing him like that mongoose Hannibal compared him to, all those years ago. A lifetime ago. One before all the blood, all the betrayal. Before the bars of a cage and the glass wall of confinement. Before the cliffs.

Will allows, sometimes, a touch to his hair, to his cheek. Only sometimes. But it lasts as long as eye contact can last, and whatever strength, whatever construct that he had held during their courtship has fallen away, beaten to dust and sand in the harsh, unforgiving expanse of the ocean. When Will blinks, when his eyes fall, so too must Hannibal's hand – away, away, the chasm between them growing ever-wider.

He can touch Will's hands. Brush along his wrists. Those are safe. Those do not bear any of Hannibal's cruelty. Hannibal would never harm Will's hands, would never see his fingers stutter and shake. Thinks of Will in cuffs and his soul recoils. Or perhaps it is because too many people have touched him here, and the skin is numb. The abrasions of rope and the divot in his thumb where he broke it to free himself, before the Dragon, enthrall Hannibal, fill his mouth with venom and saliva.

When he kisses Will's wrists, Will shivers.

"Don't say you're sorry," he breathes, acidic and barbed. Hannibal's chest, his heart, shreds itself on the tines of Will's savagery.

"I won't," Hannibal replies, and lets him go.

 

 

He forgets, sometimes. Or perhaps he doesn't, but pretends he does. He remembers, in vivid detail, how Will clung to him, how he'd clutched and gone totally lax in his arms, bloodied and fine and whispering 'It's beautiful' and Hannibal doesn't know what happened, doesn't know what trigger point laid between the bluffs and the ocean, that turned Will cold to him.

Yet, their intimacy vibrates in the air, turns the light golden. Will is healed, and he is whole. His crushed hip and broken femur have long-ago healed. The knife wound in his cheek is hidden by facial hair once again. His neck cracks in cold weather, but when he pops it, he sighs in relief. He's tension, a rubber-band stretched too tight. He might snap, but he will not allow Hannibal to ease his soreness, to placate his tender muscles and bones with oil and knowing touches.

"You could snap my neck," Will growls, the one and only time Hannibal manages to ask. "Paralyze me."

Hannibal would never, but he sees, sees in Will's eyes, that Will is not so sure.

 

 

Hannibal presses his lips together, sighing through his nose as he lowers his hand, forces himself to pry his fingers away from the sweat-damp curl of Will's hair. He had simply meant to tuck it behind his ear, away from his face. Too close to his forehead. Too close to his neck. Hannibal knows touch-starvation, he has felt it since he turned himself in and that single embrace on the cliffs had only whetted his appetite and sharpened his fangs. Will's neck is caked with blood, his sore shoulders stiff with strain from helping Hannibal haul the body into their safehouse, to dissect and harvest for their meal.

"You're starving me," he whispers, and steps away.

Will lets out a rough sound, eager and savage and shows his teeth when he smiles. "It's what we deserve."

 

 

Hannibal is not allowed to kiss him. When Will comes for him, when the night is dark and full of shadows, when he slithers into Hannibal's bed and parts his thighs, puts his teeth to Hannibal's nape, when he uses his fingers and spit and the oil he refuses to let Hannibal use in a massage to spread him open. When he claws at Hannibal's hips, fucking in, selfish and brutish and it is only through his skill as a lover, the overpowering ache Hannibal holds in his chest that gets him off as Will fucks him, Hannibal is not allowed to turn. Barely allowed to breathe. He wonders if Will is thinking of someone else when he does it, but is too cowardly to ask.

When Will comes, it's with a snarl, and it is only then that he allows some shred of gentleness. Only then, it seems, he acknowledges the monster he has conquered in his own bed. Only then, that he holds Hannibal at the chest, claws dug in to cling at his racing heart, and presses his lips open-mouthed to Hannibal's sweaty neck.

Only then, when he whispers, "Let's hunt tomorrow." And Hannibal is lost, foolish and too much in love to deny him. Merely nods, and lets Will part from him, leaves Hannibal wet and sore and aching, corrects his clothes and stalks away to the other room. He sleeps on the couch. Hannibal never told him he had to.

 

 

They move around each other like ships circling a whirlpool. Always chasing. Hannibal thinks of aspic and sighs, rubbing his hand through his hair. There's a bruise on his neck and Will forces him to wear low-collared shirts, so that he can see it. It's midday, and Will is out – fishing, perhaps, or prowling through the marketplace, sharp eyes on the villagers and prey animals that have gathered there, thinking that there is safety in numbers, foolishly trusting their walls and their connections to keep the wolves at bay. In his sketchbook lies pictures of Will, in their multitudes. Studies of his neck, depictions of a smile Hannibal hasn't seen since Will had blood in his teeth and adoration in his eyes. Will barely smiles anymore, and when he does, it's saccharine and too-wide, too full of vitriol, and he reserves it for when they host dinner and Will has brought him prey, an offering, for Hannibal to do with as he sees fit. He uses it to charm the sheep, to whisper 'Come into my parlor', the spider to the fly.

He closes his eyes, closes his book, and sets it down. His fingers drum on his knees, and he strolls through the wing in his mind palace that is solely for Will – yet Will invades every corner, now, even the place he kept locked away for Mischa, and Chiyoh. Hannibal hears his laughter, and it echoes like the wail of a ghost.

This cannot go on. Hannibal is starving.

He stands.

 

 

"No," Will hisses, jerking his chin like a stallion being forced to take the bit. He scrambles back, snarling, a strangely feral light in his eyes. "No, absolutely not."

Hannibal sighs through his nose, eyeing the box he had brought to Will and set on the coffee table in front of him, while Will was busy fashioning another of his lures. There are no streams nearby, nowhere to fish. Hannibal had hoped to bring him someplace that suited them both, but time and healing and lack of communication has forced them into stasis here.

"I did not intend to use these on you, Will," Hannibal murmurs. Will's eyes flash and he lifts his chin. "You don't want me to touch you, you've made that abundantly clear."

Will's upper lip twitches, and curls back.

Hannibal sighs again, and moves away. He sits, on the opposite couch, and pulls his sketchbook into his lap.

There passes, endlessly, silence. A moment, an hour, until the tick of the clock becomes less than background noise and fades away altogether. Then, Will shifts, nostrils flared, and Hannibal forces himself not to smile.

His Will has always been a curious creature.

Will lifts the top item, tilting it so the silver gleams, the black leather shines. He presses his lips together and Hannibal makes sure his eyes are on his sketchbook when Will looks at him. He sighs, internally – he might draw Will for a thousand years and never quite master his wayward hair.

Will pulls the cuffs apart, testing the strength of the silver chain that connects them. They clink together and rustle, a little happy purr of potential stretching out through the silence.

Will sets them down and pulls out the next item. A collar, thick and wide, also black. The leather is butter-soft, sleek, and Hannibal watches from the edges of his vision as Will wraps his knuckles in it, growling low when it stretches a little, but does not give.

His eyes flash to Hannibal again, spearing, assaulting his senses, unable to be ignored. Hannibal lifts his eyes.

"These cover your marks," he says.

Hannibal tilts his head, thinks of the bruise on his neck. Thinks of the scars on his wrists, placed there by Will's own attempt at a reckoning while he was caged. His lips purse and he closes his book, letting it rest in his lap.

"That was not part of my consideration," he says plainly, slowly.

Will's eyes flash, and he sets the collar down. The rest of the box contains rope, soft rope meant to bind a man in place, enough that Will could theoretically string him up completely, bind and restrain every inch of Hannibal, if he so desired.

Will huffs, and his eyes shine when he says; "I don't believe you."

Hannibal considers this, and finally sets his book to one side, and leans forward, his elbows on his knees. Will leans back, forcing distance, and it makes something in Hannibal ache, just below his heart. "Why are you still here, Will?" he asks. Will blinks, brow creasing.

"Why wouldn't I be?" he replies, as if the answer is just that obvious.

Hannibal tilts his head. "Perhaps you seek to monitor me," he suggests. "The Devil you know and all that."

Will lets out a rough sound, high and offended. "Ever the guard, is that it?" he says bitterly, and stands. Hannibal sits back, surprised at the sudden flurry of movement, as Will whirls on him and gestures to him with an accusing hand. "Where else would I go?" he demands. "Where could I go, where I could escape your marks, and the scars you left on me, and the dark shadow of you behind my eyelids? _Where_ , Hannibal?"

Hannibal refuses to let his façade crack, and yet inside his mind, the wing of Will in his mind palace shakes to the foundations. He feels, in him, something volcanic, tremoring and ready to explode. Will's anger has always been beautiful, his passion enthralling, and here, in this empty space filled with nothing but leather and firelight and themselves, he is unsteady.

His hands flatten on his thighs, and he drops his gaze. "I don't know," he admits.

Will hisses, and turns away. "Put that box somewhere I'll never see it," he snarls, melting into the shadows as he goes towards Hannibal's bedroom. "And come here."

 

 

Hannibal follows him, obedient to a fault, and Will grabs at his shirt, pulling him close, and buries his teeth in Hannibal's collarbone. Hannibal hisses, wincing in pain, his hands twitching in an aborted movement. He wants to touch Will's hair, wants to soothe this angry stranger of a thing that has made its home in Will's heart. Want to _touch_ , to taste him, but Will is ever-wary of his sharp teeth and bite.

Will jerks him forward, pulls back, and turns Hannibal so Will can shove him onto the bed. Hannibal sits up, makes to undress, but Will's hands catch him and press, hard, over his wrists.

"No," he says. He sighs, and his tone suddenly turns very, very gentle. "No."

Hannibal freezes, lets Will take his hands and plant them on the bed at either side of him. Then, Will prowls closer, parts his thighs and climbs into Hannibal's lap. His weight feels like too much, like he and all of Atlas' bearing settles on Hannibal, and Hannibal lifts his chin as Will's fingers cup it, he seeks Will's eyes in the low light coming from the moon outside.

Will, pale and feline and trembling. Will, his free hand settling on Hannibal's shoulder, his thighs parting further as he slots into place on Hannibal's lap. Will, his exhale shaky and warm, scented and flavored with wine and salt.

Will leans down, and their noses brush, and then, very, very gently, he rests his forehead against Hannibal's.

Hannibal shivers.

"I still feel it, sometimes," Will says, and his hand moves from Hannibal's jaw, trails down his chest, digs into his flank as his hips roll, grinding his hardening cock over Hannibal's. "In my dreams, I feel a sharp burst of light and I wake up thinking I'll see you over me, that fucking saw in your hand, ready to finish the job."

The scar is raised, a fine line of knotted tissue, and Hannibal closes his eyes.

Will growls, digs his nails into Hannibal's flank, into his shoulder, and nudges his nose until Hannibal's eyes open again. "Don't you dare," he says, dark and eager and sweet as blood, dark chocolate, cinnamon burning Hannibal's tongue. "You're going to look me in the eye when I'm talking to you."

Hannibal swallows, and wets his dry mouth. He nods, once, feels the brush of Will's hair and the harsh press of his body against Hannibal's. Tastes him, his warmth like a sunburn, and trembles as his body begins to respond, all-too-attuned to Will and his desires.

Will hums, the sound feral and proud, and he reaches down, takes Hannibal's hand and forces it flat against his belly, over the scar through his shirt. Hannibal's fingers clench and he blinks, rapidly, as Will lets their noses brush again. He aches, wants to kiss, wants to bare Will's skin and wishes Will would let him kiss there, too, let him show his sorrow and beg for forgiveness with gentle touches. He would never harm Will again, would show him only pleasure, if Will would let him.

"I still feel this, too," Will says, his voice lower now, rougher, as he selfishly takes his pleasure in the press of Hannibal's stomach, grinds and ruts like a wild beast against their clothes. "Whenever I eat, whenever you look at me, my stomach flips and I think you're going to -."

He stops. Can't say it. Hannibal doesn't think he could bear it, either.

He wants to take his hand away, but Will's grip is absolute, fierce as iron. "Do you want to be inside me, Hannibal?" he demands, would be purring except tigers don't purr – they snarl, they paralyze their prey just long enough to close that final distance and end their life.

Hannibal shivers. "Not like this."

"Not like this," Will repeats, taunting, so utterly cruel. Perhaps this is what he deserves, but it doesn't lessen the ache any more.

His upper lip twitches, and he grips Hannibal's face with his free hand, rutting forward again, his hips a gentle, graceful roll that would not hint that, not even two months ago, he still walked with a limp.

"I had a _wife_ ," he snarls, and Hannibal swallows, his hand smoothing out on Will's stomach, a long-forgotten lump of outrage and anger building up behind his throat. "I had a _son_. And she was beautiful, Hannibal. She was so fucking beautiful, and gentle, and everything you're not."

Hannibal presses his lips together, wants to turn his face away, but Will holds him, his eyes burning and spearing him in place. Will's head tilts, their noses touching again, and he smiles, off-kilter and wide and false, so fucking _false_. It makes Hannibal think of puppets, of clowns, of marionettes. This isn't his Will – this is a creature made of venom and vitriol.

"I made her come," Will whispers, clawed now, fanged, his voice hardly more than a snarl. He lets go of Hannibal's wrist and digs his nails into his shoulder instead, rutting against him with more force, and it hurts, the pressure uncomfortable and Will's words too sharp for Hannibal to lose himself as he does in Will's silence. "I made her beg for me. I didn't have to tie her up or collar her to get off. She didn't have to trick me, or cajole me. One kiss from her, one sweet touch would get her wet."

Hannibal swallows.

"Would get me hard."

He snarls.

Will laughs, and it feels like barbs again. His head tilts. "Does that piss you off?"

"What are you trying to accomplish here, Will?" Hannibal demands, though his voice is weak. His hand hasn't moved from Will's stomach, but it does now, slipping upward to the still-safe expanse of Will's chest. He lifts his eyes, meets Will's, finds them dark and angry and there's a creature there, prowling. "Do you think by riling me up, you might force my hand, and prove to yourself I'm the monster you fell for?"

Will growls. "Is that what you want to do?"

Hannibal's jaw clenches, and he is angry now. "I'm not going to rape you, Will."

Will freezes, goes utterly still. His eyes flash, and widen, and he shoves himself off of Hannibal's lap. His breathing, heavy, stutters, and he runs a hand through his hair and Hannibal watches him, watches his tense shoulders roll and his teeth sink into his lower lip. He's flushed, trembling, and when he meets Hannibal's eyes -.

 _There_ it is. A flash, just a glimmer, of the Will who held him on the cliffs and called his designs beautiful.

Will swallows, like he knows what he's shown, and recoils from it. "Goodnight, Hannibal," he says sharply, and turns, pulling the bedroom door closed with a slam. Hannibal sighs, rubbing his hands over his face, and crawls upwards into bed, too exhausted to properly undress.

Sleep doesn't come for a long time, and when it does, it is fitful.

 

 

Will is gone the next day. No note, no explanation, but Hannibal sees his clothes are still there, sitting in a suitcase at the end of the couch. His coat, still in the closet. His shower gel and shampoo still in the guest bathroom.

He sighs, swallowing back his worry. He eyes the coffee table, sees the box still there, since Hannibal didn't have a chance to put it away last night and did not emerge at the risk of incurring more of Will's wrath. The collar and cuffs have been put back inside, the box closed, and Hannibal goes to it, picking it up, and carries it to his bedroom.

He slides it under the bed, and then returns to the main space.

Though Will is not here, his anger prickles along the walls, colors them an off-yellow Hannibal finds disconcerting to look at. The air, normally gold, seems sour now. He runs his hands through his hair, sighing again, and sits on one of the couches. His sketchbook is still on the other cushion, untouched.

His fingers still burn, his thighs ache from Will's weight on them. He had even, this morning during his shower, checked to see if they were bruised. Of course, they weren't, but there is a neat line of pink from Will's bite, above his collarbone, rapidly-fading.

He sighs, tipping his head back against the couch, blinking to the ceiling like the patterns of the beams might give him the answers.

One thing is certain: this is not sustainable. Either the tension will snap, or they will. Will could leave, for real this time, leave and never come back. That is intolerable, for though Hannibal aches whenever he is near, the sharp pain of his absence is far, far worse. Will could stay, could keep pressing and prodding and he would either grow bored of his games, or he _would_ find something in Hannibal, some flaw in the levee that ultimately caused the dam to break and Hannibal still has a knife in his bag and he still thinks, sometimes, of the things he would feed Will to sweeten his flesh.

It's habit. The voice in his head sounds like Will's, flat and dismissive.

The last option, the one Hannibal wishes for most of all, is that Will overcomes his trauma – trauma that is largely Hannibal's fault, he will admit that, and so in its foundations Hannibal himself should not be the one to cure it. And yet Will is right; they cannot survive separation.

"Where else would I go?"

Nowhere. Nowhere is better than here.

He closes his eyes, conjures the image of Will in his mind, and sits him on the other couch. Will reclines, relaxed and smiling, his arms braced along the back of the couch, feet up on the coffee table and crossed at the ankles. This Will smiles like he used to, and his eyes are glacially bright and beautiful like they used to be, before the dark cloud of anger and post-traumatic stress settled and made itself at home in his irises.

He lolls his head Hannibal's way, and hums. "You look like shit," he says.

Hannibal huffs, and smiles, and opens his eyes to gaze upon his Will. "I feel like shit," he replies plainly.

"Mm." Will's lashes lower, rake Hannibal up and down, and Hannibal thinks of how he'd looked when he'd confessed about his fantasy of killing Hannibal. He'd made eye contact, then, shown Hannibal the sweet slip of his tongue between his pale lips, lifted his chin and purred for him, a sunning wildcat. The sour reality of how much of that was a façade turns Hannibal's stomach, and he looks away. "I suppose that's my fault," Will says.

"I…am appreciative of honesty," Hannibal says carefully, though he does not need to be careful. This isn't the real Will, after all. "And you have always been a frightfully honest man, even in your deception."

Will laughs, tilts his head back and shows Hannibal the pale arch of his throat in a way the real Will never does anymore. He wanders the world with hackles up and shoulders risen, ready to snap and snarl at anyone who gets too close like a wounded dog might.

"And you have always been a deceptive man, even in your honesty," Will replies, turning his head again. He scratches over his beard, picking at the line in his cheek where Dolarhyde's knife struck. He looks towards Hannibal's bedroom. "Why did you buy those things?" he asks. "The restraints, and the ropes?"

Hannibal sighs. "Will craves control," he says.

Will smiles at him. "No," he replies. "Not control."

Hannibal lifts a brow. Around them, the room changes, and Hannibal turns his head, sees them in his old study, sitting in those large padded chairs with the too-wide armrests. Sees Will, jittery, snarling, his teeth lined up and set on edge.

His old self is smiling. "What did you see?"

Will's countenance shifts, and the Will on the couch stands, circling between their old selves. He touches Hannibal's chair, spreading his fingers along it, and leans down, his eyes on Hannibal, and whispers in his old self's ear:

"A missed opportunity." Hannibal shivers, just as he did that day. "To feel like I felt when I killed Garret Jacob Hobbs. To feel like...like I felt when I thought I killed you."

Hannibal smiles, says, in echo, in surround-sound; "What does that feel like?"

"I felt…a quiet sense of power," old Will says, and the Will Hannibal conjured straightens, approaches his past self, grabs him by the chin and lifts his eyes so that they meet. He touches Will's hair like Hannibal wishes he could, smiles, and lets him go, and the old Will trembles, tightens his fingers, lifts his chin and meets Hannibal's eyes.

"Good," his past self purrs. "Hold onto that."

Hannibal lets out a breath as the memory fades, swept into Will's wing of his mind palace, and his imago of Will approaches him and smiles, wide and off-kilter, cheeks dimpling. He leans down, plants his hands on either side of Hannibal's head on the back of the couch. His forehead bears that scar, now. At his temple, the subtly off-pink graze from when Chiyoh pushed him off the train.

"Power and control are not the same thing," Will says, and Hannibal nods. "You have robbed him of his power, over and over and over again, but his control? That is absolute." His head tilts. "But you already knew that, didn't you?"

Hannibal sucks in a breath, and presses his lips together. He nods, and Will smiles.

"Do you think he does?" he asks, slow-blinking, guileless and sweet.

He must, he must.

Will smiles again, cups Hannibal's cheeks, and kisses him, chaste and slow. Hannibal trembles because it doesn't feel like Will at all. He pulls back, and fades away, and that terrible ache returns with such sudden strength and power that Hannibal feels nauseous.

 

 

Will returns after five days, a cooler slung over his shoulder. Hannibal can smell the cold, fishy scent coming from it, and his head tilts. Will would have had to drive for almost a day and a half to get anywhere worth fishing in.

Will nods to him, and sets the cooler down on the kitchen counter, by the fridge. He opens it, pulling out several whole salmon wrapped in plastic bags, which he places in the freezer, before he pushes the cooler into the sink to be rinsed out later.

Hannibal watches him do it, silent.

Will's shoulders roll, tense up, and he braces himself on the counter, as if waiting for Hannibal to approach him, to test his luck. Or, perhaps, for Hannibal to give up, to sigh, and turn away. That is always the option, isn't it? To attack, or to flee.

Hannibal is not a fisherman, he is a hunter. But Will is not a hunter, not naturally anyway. Hannibal curls his fingers around his coffee cup, the contents borderline cool now, and waits.

Finally, Will lifts his head, and turns, meeting Hannibal's eyes. His own are calmer, now; he's had time to decompress, to soothe himself where he will not let Hannibal calm him. Hannibal presses his lips together, drops his eyes, drops his shoulders, and sips his coffee.

He sighs. "Hannibal -."

"I'd rather not fight, if that's your intention," Hannibal says coolly. He leans back, against the counter, cradling his mug to his chest. Will's brows rise, and his head tilts, and he lets out a sharp, hoarse laugh.

"You don't want to fight?" he demands, almost incredulously.

Hannibal hums. "I believe in the pros of a lively debate, but if you are feeling incendiary, I would rather not burn with you." He watches Will's expression at that, sees him frown, and swallow. "I'm pleased your venture was profitable. We were running low on meat."

Will's fingers twitch, and curl, and his sides. Unbidden, a pleased flush colors his cheeks, and he looks down. "Yeah," he murmurs, and rubs the back of his neck. He winces, and shoves at his chin until his neck cracks. "The fish were hungry, I guess. It's almost winter."

Hannibal can intimately sympathize with that.

Will's jaw clenches, and he rubs at his neck again, wincing in discomfort, and Hannibal sighs, and sets his coffee mug down.

"Will," he says, and does not approach, but Will's eyes snap up like he's prepared for Hannibal to lunge. "Please. Let me massage your neck and shoulders."

Will's eyes narrow, and he swallows. "No," he replies.

Hannibal's fingers curl, and he tries not to let his aggravation show, but Will must see it. He must. He closes his eyes, takes in a deep breath, and nods.

"Alright," he says, and picks up his mug again, headed to the couch.

He feels Will's eyes on him, hears Will growl, and follow. "Alright?" he repeats, harsh and low.

Hannibal nods, and does not give Will the pleasure of meeting his eyes. "If you'd like to continue suffering, and refuse to let me help you, then I'm at a loss of what else I can do," he says primly. "If all you want from the rest of your life is to remain here, and continually poke and prod at me, and force me to submit to your will, then that is what you shall have."

Will's silence is loaded, loaded as the gun he pulled on Hannibal, calling himself 'righteous', snarling and feral and so terrifying in his beauty, like an avenging angel. Hannibal thinks of that day, often, and will not deny it makes him flush warmly. But perhaps that memory, like all his others, is painted with too much gold to be true anymore. Will's sickness is yellowing the pages of his memory, turning everything monochrome and sepia.

Then, the silence breaks, and Will snarls and paces away from Hannibal, into his bedroom. Hannibal lifts his eyes, curious, and blinks when Will returns with the box. He sits down and sets it on the coffee table, opens it, and takes out the cuffs, then the collar, setting it to one side.

He breathes out, and pulls out the first coil of rope. It's folded and tied in on itself into a neat bundle, and he tugs on the knot of it, letting it unravel. Hannibal doesn't move, doesn't dare, as Will stands and approaches him.

Their eyes meet, and Will's are dark with shadows, that creature prowling behind his irises. He lets the rope fall over Hannibal's thighs, tosses it like he might toss an enemy a loaded gun.

"Where's the oil?" he asks.

Hannibal presses his lips together. "Where you left it, I imagine."

Will huffs, and paces away again, prowling like a hunting cat through long grass, eyes on the innocent herd of gazelles. Hannibal watches him go, breathless, and looks down at the coil of rope in his lap. His fingers curl around it, thumb absently brushing across the softness of it, and he looks up when Will returns. Will sets the oil on the table and takes the collar in hand.

"Stand up," he demands.

Hannibal obeys.

Will's breath catches, his hands tugging on the edges of the collar. He looks down at it, curling his fingers around the ring at the end, twisting it, and then he looks up again. Hannibal curls his fingers, takes in a breath, and turns around.

Will's exhale is heavy, and Hannibal closes his eyes as he feels the collar graze his skin. Will wraps it around the front of his throat, covering his Adam's apple and just below, and pulls it tight. A little too tight, but Hannibal won't complain. He fastens it and tugs at the ring, then bends down to gather the rope.

"I'm keeping this in my hands," Will says, like a warning, as he loops the rope through the ring in the collar, tugs it tight and knots it and Hannibal feels the bulge of the knot on the base of his neck. Will pulls, experimentally, and Hannibal growls, lifting his chin, fighting the instinctive urge to tear the thing off, to lunge at the animal who would dare restrain him.

Will turns him around, slides the collar so that the ring is at the front, and tilts his head. His thumb brushes the edge of it, where Hannibal's skin is bulging slightly, restrained. His eyes are wide, and darker now with some other emotion, perhaps – Hannibal hopes – some realization that there isn’t anything Hannibal wouldn't do, wouldn't subject himself to, for Will's sake.

His eyes lift, and he steps back. "Sit," he says, and Hannibal obeys. Will shivers, biting his lower lip, and sinks to his knees, then turns, until his shoulders are between Hannibal's legs. Hannibal spreads further, sliding forward, and grunts when Will tugs on the collar, tight enough to ache at the back of his neck.

He leans forward and grabs the oil, letting the bottle settle by his thigh. The scent of it is sharp, neither one of them prefers lavender; it's a concoction of Hannibal's own making, lemongrass and tea tree oil and Hannibal can't help how his stomach clenches, for until now Will has only used it for the specific purpose of getting Hannibal slick enough to mount.

He hesitates, knows he's pressing his luck when he says; "It will be easier with your shirt off."

Will's shoulders roll, and tighten. He yanks on the rope like a punishment. "Just do it," he growls.

Hannibal sighs. He leans forward again, and cups Will's shoulders in gentle hands. Will stiffens, instinctively, and Hannibal sees his knuckles curl tight around the rope, ready to tug.

He closes his eyes, and kisses Will's hair, just briefly, before he lets Will go and uncaps the oil bottle, wetting his fingers, and closes it again. "I'm going to start with your neck," he says softly. Will shivers, muscles in his throat flexing as he swallows. "I intend to work along the base of your skull, and down. I will not touch your throat, and if you need me to, I will stop immediately." He pauses, and when Will doesn't protest, he continues; "After I am done there, if you would like to keep going, I'll work on your shoulders."

Will's exhale is shaky, and he lets out a sound like a sob. "Okay."

Hannibal smiles, and shifts forward just a little more. He touches Will's nape, gently, and pushes his thumbs to the hollow at the base of Will's skull. Will shivers, sighing, and tips his head forward. His jaw flexes, Hannibal sees it bulge, and he gently touches his fingers to the side of Will's neck, framing the borders of where he can safely touch. He flattens his palms to Will's nape, dragging his thumbs down the tense knots of muscle, along the ridges of bone.

Will trembles, pulling his knees up to his chest, his hands, white-knuckled and bound with rope, settling against them. But he doesn't pull, doesn't tug.

Hannibal closes his eyes, pulls his fingers back, digs his thumbs into the slope of Will's neck and inward. He finds so many knots, so many little pinpricks of tension, and eases his touch against them, coaxing the muscle into submission, into pliancy.

Will sighs, relaxing against his own better judgement. His head tips forward a little further.

Hannibal smiles. He pushes his fingers up, flattens one palm gently over the back of Will's neck and squeezes, easing down again.

Will tenses, lets out a growl of warning, and Hannibal immediately stops. Gentles his hand, and corrects his grip so only his fingers are touching.

He sighs, but is pleased when Will relaxes again. "It was never my intention to do this to you, Will," he murmurs.

Will huffs, a soft and bitter sound. "No," he agrees. "Just to kill me. Twice, and that's just the times you were directly involved."

Hannibal hums, and swallows. "Yes," he says, because he cannot deny it. "But before all that, and even during, the thing I coveted most was to see you become intimate with your instincts."

He rubs his thumbs, a casual snake of pressure down the back of Will's neck, and Will shivers. "But your instincts have turned on us both; they make you flee from me. Make you fight me." He pauses, and when Will doesn't answer, he adds; "Is that what you want?"

Will swallows, and shakes his head.

Will is silent, and Hannibal aches to the bone.

"What do you want, Will?"

Will sighs. "It took a year before I could even stand letting Molly hug me," he says. Hannibal presses his lips together, clenches his jaw so he does not tighten his hands. "The first time she touched my neck I…I had a fucking panic attack." He tilts his head up, turns, and shows Hannibal the corner of his eyes, his bared teeth. "The first time I slept in her bed, I saw you. You were watching me, from the shadows."

Hannibal closes his eyes, sighs, and presses his lips to Will's soft, curling hair.

Will doesn't flinch from the touch, but his shoulders are tense, now, curling in, wanting to protect his neck. He yanks savagely on the rope and Hannibal straightens, and lets him go. Lets him rise and turn, spearing Hannibal with his gaze.

"You have no idea how many layers of fucked-up _intimacy_ you put in me," he snarls. He tugs on the ropes again and Hannibal has to stand, or risk choking. Will glares at him, all the wrath of God and man in his eyes. "I can't breathe without feeling like your hands are holding my lungs. Can't feel my heartbeat without tasting your poison in my blood."

Hannibal swallows, and looks away.

Will grabs his chin, forces their eyes to meet again. "What did I tell you about looking at me?" he demands.

Hannibal shakes his head – or tries. Will's grip on him is absolute, both physically and otherwise. Will growls, sucks in an uneven breath, and reaches for his neck, unfastening the collar and pulling it free. He lets it drop, rope and all, on the couch.

"Do you want to hurt me, Will?" Hannibal asks. Will blinks at him, lips parting, and his eyes drop. "Do you want to torture me, and starve me? Will that be the antidote to the poison you feel in your veins?"

Will licks his lips, and lifts his eyes. "I thought it would," he confesses, whisper-soft. "But it's not working." He takes a step back, runs both hands through his hair, down the nape of his neck. The shine of oil comes back on his fingers and he looks at them, rubs them together, and looks away. "Chiyoh told me violence is the only thing I understand."

Hannibal's head tilts. He resists the urge to rub at his sore neck, sure that it would only incense Will further, to see him do that. "Do you blame me for that, as well?"

At that, Will laughs. He shakes his head. "No," he replies, and sighs. "That was there well before you came along, though the enjoyment of it was…"

He stops, brow creasing, and raises his head. There is something in his eyes, something calculating and assessing, and he clenches his jaw, sucks in a breath. His fingers curl, slick and shining, and he rolls his shoulders.

Hannibal lets him stew, lets him think. The fish must swim to him, now.

"You always made everything feel…not good. Not exactly. But _right_. Like your way of looking at things was the natural way, and everyone else was wrong. And there was…" He pauses, licking his lips. "There was freedom in that. Self-assuredness that I never had, anywhere else."

Hannibal breathes in, breathes out. Prompts; "But."

"But," Will repeats, nodding. He winces, and his eyes are suddenly very bright, shining and wet. He lets out a hoarse, ragged sound, and rubs his hand over his jaw. "You had to go and pull all that other shit. You force-fed me a Goddamn _ear_. You looked me right in the eye, when I came to you, begging for help, and you _lied_."

Hannibal nods – he knows this, he knows. "I stripped you of your power," he murmurs. "I took away everything from you – your freedom, your sanity, even your sense of self and your ability to trust."

Will growls. "Don't flatter yourself," he hisses, folding his arms across his chest, yet in that action alone, he betrays himself, acknowledges the truth of what Hannibal has said. He lifts his chin in challenge, and tilts his head.

Blinks, once, twice.

"Why are _you_ still here, Hannibal?" he asks. "You have the connections and resources to go anywhere you want, and I'm…I'm dead weight."

Hannibal frowns, wants to challenge that, but decides against it. Arguing with Will garners him no favor – he seeks to reassure. "Will," he murmurs, and steps forward, and takes one of Will's hands in his own. Will has never denied him touches, here. Will's fingers curl, and he trembles, the slick oil on both their hands just making it that much easier for their fingers to lace, and clutch tightly. Like they did on the cliffs, only instead of iron and salt, Hannibal tastes crisp lemongrass, tea tree oil, and the subtle afterglow of Will's anxiety.

"Will," he says again, and lifts Will's knuckles to his lips, makes sure Will meets his eyes when he kisses there, gently. "I am here for the same reason you are."

Will's brow creases. "To monitor me?" he says, sharply.

Hannibal shakes his head. "Because there is nowhere I could go, that I would not find more pleasurable in your company," he replies. "Even in your anger, even in your hate, you have always been and will always be the most beautiful thing in the world, the most treasured friend and companion, and I would rather live one year with you, snarling and fighting me, than a thousand without."

Will sucks in a breath, tightens his fingers until his nails dig in, but doesn't pull away. "That's a lot of pretty words, Doctor Lecter," he breathes, and Hannibal sighs. Will calls him that when he's trying to maintain some distance, trying to wound Hannibal with his disinterest – just as, with his first name, he aims to draw blood within their intimacy.

"And I mean every one of them," Hannibal replies easily. This is the longest Will has allowed his touch for what feels like eternity. And he's not pulling away. Hannibal kisses his knuckles again and lets Will's hand drop, and Will's eyes follow as though magnetized. "There are so many things I wish to tell you, Will, so many things I want to say – and I would, if I knew you would believe them."

Will tilts his head, squares his jaw, meets Hannibal's eyes. "Like what?" he asks, taking a single, small step closer.

Hannibal smiles, though it's sad. "Are you seeking more ways to wound me?" he murmurs.

Will huffs a laugh, smile off-kilter, somewhat sheepish at being caught. He presses his lips together and reaches up with his free hand, gently cradling Hannibal's face. His eyes, still shining, search him, and he tilts his head, thumbing down the slight crease on the side of Hannibal's mouth.

"You never had frown lines before we met," he murmurs. "I've watched them darken, and deepen." He sighs. "You're a creature of joy, Hannibal, of unabashed and unashamed pleasure, and I am – what?" He huffs a laugh. "Some bitter demon, full of venom and spite. How can you love me?"

 _Love_. Isn't that just the most damning of all human emotions? "The only way I know how, dear Will," Hannibal replies. "With everything I am."

Will hums, pressing his lips together. He takes in a deep breath through his nose, and slowly lifts Hannibal's other hand, where their fingers are still entwined. He closes the rest of the distance, lifts his chin, and presses their folded hands between their chests. His other hand remains, blessedly soft on Hannibal's jaw.

When their lips meet, it's chaste, so chaste and gentle it's like kissing a phantom, like kissing a memory. Hannibal's heart stutters, stills, and then leaps into a gallop. He freezes in place, letting Will sigh, letting him slacken, and Will's fingers flex and squeeze between his own. He tilts his head and deepens the kiss, parting his lips as Hannibal leans into him, and his free hand flies up, spreads out wide and warm on the back of Will's neck.

The effect is immediate. Will flinches, pulling back, but Hannibal is too desperate to let him go just yet. He tightens his hand on Will's nape, runs his thumb under Will's hairline, and presses their foreheads together. Another forbidden touch. Will trembles.

"I'm sorry," Hannibal breathes. He waits for Will to go still, and Will's hand slides from his cheek, flattens over his throat in warning. He squeezes, and Hannibal shivers, but doesn't move. "I'm sorry, Will. It's alright. I'm not -."

Will swallows, harshly.

"You touched me like this right before you gutted me."

Hannibal breathes out, shaking. "I'm not going to hurt you."

Will lets out a weak, ragged sound. "Please don't -. Don't lie to me." He lifts his eyes, doesn't pull away – can't, with how Hannibal is touching him. He trembles, and digs his nails into the back of Hannibal's hand, squeezes around his throat. His voice, when he speaks again, is thick with unshed tears; "I swear to God I'll kill you if you lie to me again."

"I swear, Will, I'm not lying," Hannibal says, rasping behind Will's tight grip. Finally, he lets Will's neck go, taking away that so-threatening touch, and Will gasps, sagging, and shakes his head sharply, pulling their foreheads apart. There's a pink spot below his hair where Hannibal's skin touched his, like a brand, like a burn.

He tugs his hand from Hannibal's, runs it over his mouth, and swallows harshly. "You should go to sleep," he says. "The hour's late."

"Will, please," Hannibal says, reaching for him and Will flinches, fingers curling into a tight fist. He'll throw a punch if Hannibal pushes him too far. His breathing is shaken, uneven, he looks like he's shutting down from the inside, every light and firing synapse locking into place and icing over.

He looks down, touching his mouth again, and sighs. He picks up the collar and rope, unfastens the knot and wraps it tightly into a coil – not as neat as the one it previously held, but serviceable. Hannibal watches him go to the box, place everything back inside, and close it. The 'click' of it locking into place echoes like the bang of a cannon.

He sits on the couch, shoulders tensed, fingers shaking, and flinches, his head in his hands.

"Go away, Hannibal," he murmurs. "Just…go."

Inside his chest, Hannibal's heart stills again, the ice in Will's voice spearing him, seizing his aorta, clogging his lungs. Denied of air, denied Will, he can only mutely obey, just like the last time. Will's words follow him – "Please don't lie to me" – and yet, Hannibal has, over and over and for what? For the sake of his own childish, gleeful curiosity. He had wanted to see Will bend, to see him break, to rip apart that container of oil and watch it color everything black.

Well, now everything is black. The shadows, the night, and Will's love for him, all covered in ash. Will's cruelty stings him, but even in this, Will is reactionary, weaponizing his empathy and his superb ability to mimic. Hannibal fashioned his chrysalis, created this monster, and now it does as it sees fit.

"I'm just following my nature. Isn't that what you wanted?"

Hannibal sits. He leaves the door open. Will doesn't come for him that night.

 

 

Hannibal goes hunting, that morning. The Government and police in France do not know to fear him, do not know the legend of the Ripper, but he knows, once he has left his offering, that their small town will be brimming and bustling with news of this violent murder.

Will is a storm when he returns from the market. "Hannibal!" he yells, slamming the front door, kicking his shoes off and shrugging off his coat in a flurry of haphazard, snarling movements. Hannibal emerges from the pantry, dusting off his hands, and Will meets his eyes.

"What the _fuck_ did you do?" he demands.

Hannibal smiles. Will, in all his fury, looks lovely. His hair is windswept, his cheeks a ruddy pink, the shine of his teeth as he bares them at Hannibal makes his neck ache, thinking of Will's bite, of the light bruising from the collar around his throat.

"It occurs to me," he says, striding to the kitchen, "that at the pinnacle of our communion, we saw each other as perfect equals and opposites. Both monsters, of joy and blood, and beauty."

Will follows him, eyes him as Hannibal opens a bottle of red wine from the rack by the fridge. He offers it to Will, and Will lifts his chin, but nods, shoulders sagging as Hannibal retrieves two glasses and pours them one each, a liberal amount.

He slides it to Will, who catches it, and lifts it to his lips, taking a deep swallow. Hannibal hums, and lifts his own, inhaling the bouquet before taking a sip. It's a fine wine, brewed at one of the local vineyards a few miles away, and is rich and sweet on his tongue.

Will sets his glass down, and snarls; "So you decided to go off on your own and make a spectacle of yourself."

"Ah," Hannibal says, almost grinning. "So you do admit to wanting to monitor me."

"So you do admit to feeling restless, and wishing I wasn't here," Will snaps back.

Hannibal tilts his head, and hums, taking another drink. "Did you see the crime scene, Will?"

Will stalls, stutters, and looks down at his wine. "Yes," he admits, and takes another drink, baring the long arch of his throat, flushed as well. He might have sprinted from the town, once he'd seen what Hannibal had done.

Hannibal smiles. "What did you see?"

Will swallows, his eyes shining. "Devotion," he replies. He has long since passed the point of being shy about dissecting Hannibal's tableaus. "Love."

"Just devotion?" Hannibal presses. "Just love?"

Will shakes his head, and swallows. "I saw need," he breathes, fingers tight around the stem of his glass. "I saw…" He sighs, closing his eyes, and an expression almost pained passes across his face. "Why?"

"Why?"

"Why," Will says.

Hannibal hums, pressing his lips together. "You doubt what I say," he murmurs, and Will lifts his eyes. "You doubt my intentions when I touch you. You doubt my gentleness – I don't know if you even think me capable."

Will winces, like the words are a blow. "I know you're capable of it," he replies. "I just…doubt the origin of it, I suppose." He huffs a soft, bitter laugh. "The legitimacy."

"But I cannot hide how I kill, my dear Will," Hannibal says with a nod. Will looks at him again. "Not from you." Never from him.

Will hums, sets his jaw to one side, his teeth on each other's edge, and isn't that how they always are? Dancing the edges of knives and cliffsides, waiting for the inevitable plunge, one way or the other. "You were gentle, with her," he whispers, and his fingers shake. "She looked like Abigail."

Hannibal nods. That had been why he chose her.

"And the man looked like…me," Will says.

"And with her, I was gentle," Hannibal replies. "With him, I was -."

"Loving."

"Loving," Hannibal says with a nod.

Will shivers, and wipes his free hand over his mouth. He sets his wine glass down again, and circles the kitchen counter, until they are standing a mere foot apart. A foot, and maybe a mile, for the shadows in Will's eyes lengthen and bend the light, snap the gold filigree in two.

Will sucks in a breath, lets it out, and Hannibal can taste the wine on his tongue. "In my dreams, you were a man of shadow, a monster," he whispers. "Once I knew what you were, you appeared in blurs, hallucinations that weren't hallucinations anymore. I…"

He swallows.

"I had dreamed of you touching me," he says, lashes low, meeting Hannibal's eyes under the mess of his hair. He looks down at his hands, knuckles tight, fingers flexing. "I still dream about it."

"Are these…good dreams?" Hannibal asks, though he already knows the answer.

Will shakes his head. "No. They're nightmares, and when I wake up, you're still here."

Hannibal swallows, and looks away, but he cannot go far. Will catches his chin, slides even closer, and his fingers turn gentle, spanning the length of Hannibal's jaw. His eyes, searching, tighten at the corners even as his lips twitch in a smile.

"Will," Hannibal breathes. "For every savage hand I have laid on you, I would cover it with a thousand gentle ones."

"I know," Will says, very softly. His head tilts, and he bites his lower lip, and lets his hand fall. He takes Hannibal's, slowly pressing it to his waist. Hannibal's fingers curl, as gentle as he can manage, Will's sweat-damp shirt wrinkling in his grip. He steps in, sighing, and slides his hands along Hannibal's biceps, up his arms, and rests his cheek on Hannibal's heart.

It's the same way they embraced on the cliffs, and Hannibal closes his eyes, flattens his other hand over Will's spine. Will shivers, clinging to him, his exhale warm.

"I remember this," he says. Shakes, and adds; "I'm not ready to let go."

"Don't," Hannibal replies, begs, and clings to him. His lips touch Will's hair, he smells Will's shampoo and breathes it in, raggedly, wanting. "Don't."

 

 

Though the day is young, Hannibal doesn't protest as Will guides him to the bedroom. The daylight paints the room starkly, no place for shadows to linger, and he thinks this is by design. Will pulls his jeans off, baring his legs, toes off his socks and tosses them to one side with the same cavalier invasiveness with which he pervades all of Hannibal's thoughts.

He pulls his sweater over his head, leaving him in only a t-shirt and underwear, and looks to Hannibal. "Undress like I am," he says.

Hannibal obeys, his fingers shaking with eagerness as he takes off his pajama bottoms, pulls off his shirt so only a white undershirt remains. Will bites his lower lip, eyes dark, raking him up and down. He sits on the edge of the bed and pats the space beside it, and Hannibal settles down next to him.

Will sighs, and leans his cheek on Hannibal's shoulder, one hand on his thigh. This simple touch, the feeling of Will's hand against his bare skin, ignites Hannibal, pulls at that touch-starved creature lying dormant and whipped in his chest.

Will turns his head, lets his lips brush, and sighs again. He takes Hannibal's hand and pulls it to his stomach.

"Touch me," he whispers, and Hannibal closes his eyes, rests his cheek at Will's hair, gently presses along the edge of the raised scar on Will's stomach. His chest aches, weak with regret, with loss, and Will's thighs tense, pull together, as Hannibal glides his hand back, tugging gently on his shirt. He pulls it back down. "I want to touch you."

Hannibal swallows, wants to say, 'You can', and 'You always could'. But instead, he simply murmurs, "Where?"

Will presses his lips together, kissing Hannibal's shoulder chastely. He lifts his eyes and Hannibal meets them as he straightens. His fingers tighten over Hannibal's. He smiles, weakly, yet his other hand is brazen when he touches Hannibal's thigh and slides inwards. "Here."

Hannibal nods, spreading his legs. He is no stranger to this, after all – Will has come to his bed many nights, cloaked in darkness, taking what he wants in a mess of snarls and clawing hands. Will swallows, like the light makes him shy, and presses his fingers wide and warm on Hannibal's inner thigh, slides up, until his palm grazes Hannibal's cock.

He nudges Hannibal's shoulder with his nose. "Lay back."

Hannibal obeys with a nod, pushing himself up on the bed until his head rests on the pillows. Will follows him, crawls and settles into place over his thighs. His head tilts, wide-eyed, and Hannibal brushes his thumb under Will's kneecap, away from his thigh since he knows it's one of the places that makes Will tense and flinch.

Will shivers, pressing his lips together, and spreads his hands wide on Hannibal's thighs, hitching up until his fingers meet the edge of his underwear. Hannibal cannot help how his body reacts – always to Will, only to Will, now – and he clenches his jaw as his cock starts to harden. Will's lips twitch, savagely satisfied at seeing it, and brings his fingers to his mouth, sucks on three of them with an obscene sound, and then pushes them between the opening in the front of Hannibal's underwear, wrapping around his hardening cock.

Hannibal shudders, stiffening, and tries not to buck. Will pulls his erection out, sliding closer on Hannibal's thighs, his lips parted and wet inside as he drags the circle of his fingers up, swipes his thumb across the slit.

He swallows, and lifts his eyes to meet Hannibal's. Hannibal is sure his face is flushed, spreading down his neck, his eyes dark with want. Since their fall he has never tried to hide how Will affects him. Will licks his lips, grits his teeth, and tilts his chin up.

"I know I'm not going to be able to do this," he says.

Hannibal brushes his fingers along Will's knees, hooking into the sweat-damp slip of flesh behind them. "Do what?" he rasps.

Will shakes his head, works his jaw to one side, then the other, and meets Hannibal's eyes almost in challenge. "Use my mouth."

"Oh, Will, you don't have to do that," Hannibal breathes.

Will smiles, barely a twitch. "I know," he replies. "I want to, though."

Hannibal nods, knowing his ever-persistent, ever-determined Will is not going to be so easily dissuaded. He aches to reach up, to soothe his fingers through Will's hair, to cup his face and kiss him as he has wanted to do countless times, a thousand times. But Will won't let him – they cannot stack Will's fears together. He will break under their weight.

If Atlas shrugs, the world will fall.

Will sucks in a breath, slides back until he rests just past Hannibal's knees, out of reach. He leans down, slides his slick fingers to the base of Hannibal's cock, and tentatively licks at the head. Hannibal's stomach tightens, and he sucks in a breath, as Will's free hand flattens on his hip to control his need to lift into his mouth.

He parts his jaws, winces, as he lets Hannibal's cockhead sink into his mouth. Hannibal growls, fingers clenching in the sheets by his waist, though Will lasts barely more than a moment before he coughs, rearing up and wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Will -."

"I can fucking do this," Will snaps, glaring at him. But something on Hannibal's face makes him soften, lowers his lashes and steadies his breathing. "I can…. I can do this."

He bends down again, licks up the thick vein lining the bottom of Hannibal's cock, Tongues, lightly, beneath his picked head and hums at the single drip of clear precum that ekes out onto his tongue. His shoulders roll, and tense, and Hannibal wishes he had been stronger, had able to last long enough to rub Will's shoulders as well, for they undoubtedly ache.

Will's hand flattens on his stomach, pressing down, and he parts his lips and sucks the head of Hannibal's cock into his mouth again. He's warm, soaking wet on the inside, like he's trying to mute the taste with his own saliva. Will closes his eyes, swallows, throat spasming, pushes his tongue to the underside so Hannibal is treated to the rough graze of the roof of his mouth.

"Will," he breathes again, and tugs on the sheets so he doesn't tug on Will's hair. Will tightens his fingers, curls his fist on Hannibal's stomach, and sucks, cheeks hollowing out for a brief moment, before he winces again and pulls off, growling. "Will, please, stop."

Will flushes, lets his fingers glide through the slick mess he left behind, and clears his throat. "That bad, huh?" he asks, playing for teasing, but it just comes out flat.

"I gain no pleasure watching you force yourself to do something you don't want to do," Hannibal says. He sits up, daring, and is pleased when Will doesn't flinch from him. He settles on his heels, over Hannibal's legs, still touching him, stroking idly, like an afterthought. But his touch is fire in Hannibal's belly, so much sensation after so long without. Hannibal is ravenous.

Will clears his throat again, wipes his mouth. "I said I wanted to."

Hannibal swallows, manages a tight smile, and shakes his head. "I thought we agreed not to lie," he murmurs, and gently touches Will at his stomach, over the scar.

Will's blush deepens, he looks away, jaw bulging at the corner. "Guess so," he replies faintly, another flint-strike of understanding lighting itself behind his eyes. He lets go of Hannibal's cock, slides closer to him and digs his nails into Hannibal's shoulders. "But I do want to do this."

Hannibal smiles, lifts his chin as Will grinds against him; a silent offering, for Will to take or discard as he pleases. Will's breath catches, his eyes dropping to Hannibal's mouth. He slides his hands in, curls them around the nape of Hannibal's neck, and lets their lips meet.

Hannibal is not so foolish the second time around. A fish already-caught is much harder to catch again. He plants his hands on the bed, lets Will mount him and kiss him. Parts his lips when Will's tongue asks entrance. Shivers, submitting to Will's bite. Will's clothing rubs against his slick cock, Will's own erection pressing hard and insistent, and Will moans into his mouth as they align, and rock together.

It's the first genuine sound of pleasure Hannibal has heard from him in…he cannot remember the last time. His nails clutch at Hannibal's neck and Hannibal kisses him back, tastes the sweetness of the wine on Will's tongue, lets Will nip his lower lip, lets himself be devoured.

Will pulls from him with a gasp, eyes all-black now, black as his love, and he pushes on Hannibal's chest. "Lay back," he commands, and Hannibal obeys. Will's eyes drop to his cock, and he pushes his underwear down, freeing his own. He takes them both in hand, pausing only to spit onto his fingers before he starts to stroke.

He growls, jaw clenching, before his face melts into a mask of pleasure. He leans over Hannibal, planting his free hand on Hannibal's chest, over his hammering heart. He strokes quickly, tightly, no care for finesse or technique, and yet it's wonderful, because it's Will touching him. Will, in his bed, illuminated by sunlight, shining with sweat as he rocks his hips and fucks between his fingers, sliding along Hannibal's cock.

"Will," he growls, "can I touch you?"

Will stiffens, snarls, curls his upper lip and slides his hand up, cupping Hannibal's throat. "Where?" he demands, voice little more than a hoarse growl.

Hannibal winces, his bruised throat protesting the press of Will's hand. "Wherever you'll let me."

Will huffs, and nods, once, lowering his head. "My neck," he breathes, and Hannibal instantly brushes his knuckles, gently, over the side of Will's pink throat. His hand unfurls, flattens, thumb on Will's jaw and Will sags to him, whimpering softly. "My -. My hair."

Hannibal obeys, sinking his other hand into Will's sweat-damp curls. Will's forehead rests on his shoulder, now, his back arched, hips rutting, growing frantic. His hand tightens around Hannibal's neck, tightens around their cocks, and he moans when Hannibal wraps his fingers in Will's hair and tugs, gently.

"Oh, oh _God_ ," Will moans, stuttering, going still. His cock twitches and he lets loose a rough snarl, coming thick and hot over Hannibal's cock and his clothed chest. His hand releases Hannibal's neck, lets him breathe, and Will bites down on his shoulder, snarls and whines as he fucks through the mess he made. He's gasping, panting, weak at the neck as Hannibal cradles him, gently. He lets Will bite, tense and trembling – would let Will nurse at his flesh forever if he wanted to.

Will lets go of his cock, takes only Hannibal's in hand, using his seed to slick the way. "Please," he whispers, weak and wanting. "Please, come for me. Show me how much you love me."

Hannibal's eyes close, his body strung out and all too eager to find pleasure in Will's hand. He turns his head, presses his lips to Will's temple, to his forehead, as he stiffens, his orgasm sweeping down his spine like a rake of claws, his cock twitching and spilling over Will's hand, adding to the mess he already made.

Will releases him instantly, lets Hannibal roll with the aftershocks and plants his dirty hand over Hannibal's hammering pulse. He gasps, bares his teeth, and bites again, groaning as Hannibal tugs on his hair and rolls his hips, seeking more of Will's weight, his warmth.

Will pulls back and Hannibal lets him go, lets him rear up, his eyes black and wide. He rubs his clean hand over his mouth, gasping, and then pushes back, shoves Hannibal's shirt up to bare his chest and wipes the mess through the hair there. Claiming him, as animals often do.

"You couldn't resist taking his heart, could you?" he breathes, and Hannibal knows he's talking about the man he slaughtered, the surrogate creature for his love. "Would you have planted your own in his chest, so I could see it?"

Hannibal nods, lashes fluttering as Will leans down and kisses him, licks over his sweaty neck. He takes Hannibal's hand in his own, smears their seed between their fingers, and laces them, resting them on Hannibal's chest.

He sighs. "You're beautiful, Hannibal." Hannibal's heart stutters, seizes, his lungs robbed of air. Will lifts his head, and smiles, and Hannibal could weep, for it's a _real_ smile – sated, glowing with release, Will smiles at him like he did on the cliffs and he's beautiful, he's _beautiful._ "You always have been."

"Can I kiss you? Hannibal asks, reaching up and thumbing gently at the corner of Will's mouth.

Will smiles, turns his head, and nuzzles Hannibal's palm. He tugs Hannibal upright, and whispers, "Yes."


	2. Chapter 2

Will is gone that afternoon, when Hannibal wakes up. Hannibal forces himself not to worry. He showers, dresses, and emerges into the main living space, chin tilted up at the scent of salmon. He frowns, and goes to the oven, finds it still with lingering warmth, but not on. He opens it and smiles when he sees Will has left him an offering of his catch, the skin crisp with rosemary, the flat, bulbous eye of the fish staring at him, mouth open as if in shock.

He slides an oven mitt on and takes the baking tray out, scoops the fish onto a plate and settles down to eat. It's a good catch, the meat of the fish pink and moist, still warm. Hannibal eats his fill, and clears away the mess, and then he dons his coat and heads out to the market.

He finds Will easily, for Will is not trying to hide. He's standing opposite a market stall, piled high with fresh bread, the scents of it wafting towards him, enticing him forward.

Will stiffens, and looks at Hannibal with dark eyes. "Katherine," he says, and smiles at the woman behind the stall. She's older, with long, straight grey hair tied in a bun at her neck, dressed in a thick coat and jeans to ward off the oncoming winter. Will speaks to her in sub-fluent French – he was forced to learn the language, since he rejected Hannibal's company as translator since their fall. "Let me introduce my husband."

Hannibal blinks, his stomach clenching with sudden warmth at Will's words. Will smiles at him, and takes his hand, brushing over his knuckles.

"Oh!" Katherine says, brown eyes widening and then brightening with glee. "It's nice to meet you. So glad to see you up and about – Mark was fretting terribly over your illness."

Hannibal smiles, squeezing Will's hand. "Thank you," he replies with a cordial nod. Will smiles again, and they purchase a loaf of bread wrapped in brown paper, and Will tucks it under his arm, and they walk hand in hand back towards their house. "Illness?" Hannibal asks, in English.

Will nods. "I had to tell them something," he says. "Your name's Eric, by the way. Two single men moving into a house in a town this small is sure to garner attention. Besides." He rolls his eyes. "Freddie already called us 'Murder Husbands' once before. There's no denying it."

"I know," Hannibal says softly. "I just…am very pleased and gratified to know you're referring to me as such."

Will smiles at him, warm and wide. Hannibal would set the world aflame to have him smile like that every day.

They return home, and Will places the bread on the kitchen counter, sighing and pulling one arm across his chest until it pops. Hannibal lets out a soft, worried sound, going to him in reflex, only to freeze as Will stiffens, hands on the counter, looking at Hannibal out of the corner of his eye, tensed.

Hannibal steps back. "I'm sorry," he whispers.

"No, it's -." He stops, shaking his head, and rubs a hand over the back of his neck.

Hannibal sighs, and gives him more space. "Healing from trauma is not a linear path, Will. And it does not happen overnight."

Will huffs. "You would know," he replies bitterly.

"I shouldn't presume. One moment of consent isn't a blanket state of permission."

Will lifts his head, sighs, and rolls his shoulders. He turns, and leans back against the counter, arms folded across his chest. He picks, nervously, at the cuff of his sleeve, looking down. "Maybe you should presume," he says. Hannibal's head tilts. "My trauma," he spits the word, "was invasive. Why shouldn't my healing be as well?"

Hannibal frowns. "Because by its very nature, it cannot be," he replies. "I can't heal you, Will. I cannot force you to forgive me, or to accept me, or to do anything you do not wish to do."

Will raises an eyebrow, and huffs.

"I won't," Hannibal amends, for he knows he absolutely can, and has, made Will do things he didn't want to do. His fingers curl, and he breathes in, sharply. "I won't. Never again."

Will hums, biting his lower lip, and lifts his eyes to the ceiling. "Tell me, Hannibal," he says, soft with consideration. "When we killed Dolarhyde together, when you said this is what you wanted, for both of us, what did that mean?"

"You know what it meant."

"Indulge me."

Hannibal lets his breath go, fingers flexing. "It meant everything, Will," he says. "It meant being by your side, through everything. It meant sharing my sense of joy, my 'rightness', as you called it, with you, for you are the only one I have ever met who has made me feel even half complete."

Will hums again. "To have and to hold?" he murmurs, and slants his eyes Hannibal's way. "For better or worse?"

"Yes."

Will smiles, faint and fond. "And this is worse," he says. "But that means it can get better, right?"

"I believe so," Hannibal replies. "There exists, in some universe, a point for each of our interactions, each decision, that altered our future. There is a universe where you killed me in the Hobbs house. A universe where we fell to our deaths on the cliffs." Will presses his lips together. "A universe where I was gentle with you from the start."

Will's eyes flash at that, and he straightens. "I reject those universes," he declares. "All of them."

Hannibal smiles. "Then, mylimasis, this is the one we are left with."

Will nods. His eyes shift, gravitate to the coffee table, where the box is sitting, once again. Where the bottle of oil has been placed, beside it. Potential, restraint, need, it all flashes across his face and Hannibal watches, watches and waits. There is a universe where he was the fisherman all along.

The sky is dark outside, the lights in the kitchen illuminating the shadows in Will's eyes.

"Will," Hannibal says, and holds out his hand. "May I attempt to show you what you saw that night?"

Will's eyes drop to his hand, his throat flexes when he swallows. He straightens, and nods, and lets their fingers lace.

"Show me."

 

 

Hannibal takes him to the bedroom, Will carrying the box and oil in his arms, and shuts the door behind them. They are plummeted into the darkness, but like oil, Will shines.

He shivers, as Hannibal presses gentle hands to his shoulders, turns him, and cups his face. He has done this countless times, before and after the fall, and he knows Will is watching him, seeking his eyes, the box held like a shield to his chest.

He leans in, lets Will feel the brush of his nose, anticipate his kiss, and Will shivers when their lips meet. He pulls away, after a moment, teeth snapping in warning against Hannibal pressing for more, and Hannibal smiles, and moves away from him, makes his steps heavy so Will can hear him, and follow him.

He sheds his coat and tosses it onto his dresser, unbuttons his shirt and shrugs it off, giving it the same treatment. Then, his suit pants, his shoes, his socks, his underwear, until he is simply bare skin. There is a single shaft of moonlight, arcing in through the parted drapes, and in them Will stands illuminated, a fallen star and shivering angel, so unaccustomed to the aches and hurts of human flesh.

Hannibal approaches him, and his silhouette clouds Will's face. He takes the box from Will's hands and places it next to them, on the bed, and then touches Will gently, at his knuckles. Will's fingers curl, forming fists, butts gracelessly at Hannibal's stomach.

"Touch me, Will," he says. "Replace the creature from your nightmares with this."

Will trembles, his hands pressing flat, raking across Hannibal's flanks. Up, to the hair on his chest – higher still, to his neck.

"You could hurt me, if you wanted," Hannibal says. He does not touch Will, simply lets him explore, lets Will turn him so that Hannibal is the one exposed by the light, the gunshot wound in his abdomen a stark knot of fleshy scar tissue, the brand on his back a pale white mess of healed flesh. Will presses close to him, rests his cheek on Hannibal's shoulder, as he runs his hands along the Verger seal.

"I have hurt you," Will replies. "Wounded you to the bone."

Hannibal nods, for he will not deny it. Will has the scars to prove it.

Will swallows, loud enough that his throat clicks. "I want to touch you," he says.

Hannibal smiles, and slides a gentle hand through his hair. "That freedom has always been yours," he replies.

Will nods, once, turns his head and kisses Hannibal's neck. He presses closer, shivering, hands cupping Hannibal's waist, his hips, gently trailing blunt nails over the tops of his thighs.

He trembles, and breathes in sharply. "Touch me," he says. "Please."

Hannibal tugs on his hair, still gentle, his other hand pushing beneath the halves of Will's coat, under his shirt. He feels the soft give of Will's flesh, aches somewhere in the back of his throat when Will whimpers, tense and skittish as a colt under his touch. He slides his hand back, to Will's spine, spreads out wide there and Will sags, heaving a shuddery sigh.

"I'm not going to hurt you, Will," Hannibal promises. "Every time I touch you, I want you to shake with pleasure, not fear."

"I'm not afraid," Will replies. Perhaps fear is too bland a term. There is apprehension, surely, the same way a man anticipates the thrust of a knife, the recoil of a gun. Will doesn't trust his mind, his instincts, his memories, to keep him safe when Hannibal pulls him to bed.

Hannibal sits, at the edge of the bed, the box digging into the side of his hip, the bottle of oil rolling, falling, to rest against his thigh. Will shivers, and pulls back, and Hannibal allows him to move, listens to the rustle of his clothing as he sheds his coat, his shirt, his jeans. Watches the shade of Will flit through moonlight, admires the glow of it on his pale skin, the shine of it in his eyes.

When Will returns to him, it is to grab the box. He holds it, hesitating.

"I don't want to use this," he murmurs. "But my mind rebels against its absence." He huffs. "Why did you buy the damn thing?"

"I believed restraining me would help curb your fears," Hannibal replies. "I see now that I was wrong."

Will hums, and sets the box down on the floor. He sits beside Hannibal, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip. "Wrong?" he repeats.

Hannibal nods. "I believed what you craved was control," he says, sucking in a breath as Will's fingers touch, almost absently, between his thighs, curling in the muscle. "That if I could not touch you, if I was physically incapable of harming you, you would be more at ease."

Will hums.

"But that's not what you wanted. It was never what you wanted." He turns his head, and smiles at Will's silhouette. "What satisfies you is power."

"Power," Will says, breathless.

Hannibal nods again, and covers Will's hand with his own, encouraging him to squeeze, to drag his nails upwards. "Power over me," he says. "Power over how I make you feel. Instincts are, by their definition, things beyond our control. They are inherent, and base, and it is those things that determine who we are and what we do."

"You are controlled," Will says.

"And you are powerful, my dear Will," Hannibal replies with a smile. "My fault, these last months, has not been…well." He huffs a soft laugh. "I suppose you could say you resent that I recovered so well. Enough to threaten your thoughts, disturb your dreams."

Will laughs, the sound airy and light. "And now you insist I always had power over you," he says, and Hannibal can hear his smile.

"Mylimasis, you make me tremble with just a look."

He hears Will's breath catch at that quiet, honest admission. Will pulls his hand away, and stands, pushing his knees between Hannibal's. He cups Hannibal's face, tilts his head up, and touches their foreheads together.

"Lay back," he says, and Hannibal obeys. Will follows him, straddling his thighs like he did that morning. He shivers when Hannibal gently, so gently, brushes a hand over his hip – the one he injured, which only recently stopped throbbing tenderly and feels like solid flesh again instead of abused, bruised muscle. Will squeezes his neck, and sighs. "How does this go for you, Hannibal?"

Hannibal tilts his head.

"My imagination will betray me, if I let it go too far," Will says, not afraid, but heavy with certainty. "You have to help me. How do you imagine fucking me? I'm sure you've thought about it."

And he has thought about it. He's thought about many things that involve touching Will. He's thought about putting his teeth in Will's neck, about tugging his hair until he moaned. He's thought about ripping Will's chest open and devouring his still-beating heart. He can remember, like it was yesterday, the gush of Will's blood in his hands, the taste of it on his cheek.

"Do you want me on my hands and knees?" Will presses. He sounds genuinely curious now, not asking to titillate or entice; rather, the words bear the heaviness of a soldier receiving orders to storm the mighty fortress at the expense of his life. "Or just like this?"

Hannibal shakes his head, thumb brushing Will's jutting hipbone. Bare as they both are, he can feel the heavy weight of Will's cock as it starts to harden, is intimately aware of the press of Will's strong thighs, the solid and gentle spread of his fingers on Hannibal's chest.

Will's head tilts, a slip of moonlight shining in his eyes, considering. Then, he nods, and bows his head. "Oh," he whispers, and gently rolls his hips, sleek and fine and trembling on top of Hannibal. Hannibal's other hand brushes below his knee, where it's safe, and Will sucks in a harsh breath. "I know what you want."

"I want whatever you're comfortable with," Hannibal replies, and it's true, but feels false, feels plastic, when he says it. He hopes Will understands – he could not survive, now, if Will shut off his sight, closed and tucked away his empathy like Hannibal tucked him into bed. He must see, he has to, for everything Hannibal wishes to show him is for Will's eyes only.

Will, predictably, huffs, and tugs Hannibal upright by the back of his neck. They kiss, a gentle press of Will's soft lips, the graze of his nails behind Hannibal's jaw, the subtle press of their chest together threatens to drive Hannibal mad. He clings to Will, at both hips, and Will moans, trembling with something like delight.

"You want me on my back," he says, and Hannibal nods, because it's no use protesting. Will smiles, purrs; "You want to make love to me, is that it? Like man and wife?" And it's scathing, a taunt, but his voice is gentle and Hannibal swallows, sliding his hands up Will's flanks, curling around his back.

"Yes," he replies, because he swore he wouldn't lie.

Will is quiet, for a long, long time. Then, he nudges Hannibal's jaw, gently, makes him turn his head and kisses down the bared slope of his neck.

He sighs, saying; "I don't know if I can do that, Hannibal." Hannibal close his eyes, resting his forehead gently over the gunshot wound Chiyoh left in Will's shoulder. Will's fingers flex, and tighten, "But I want to try."

Hannibal nods, and tightens his hands on Will's back, tugging him close. Will sags against him, and lets them roll, sucking in a breath as his back meets the sheets. Hannibal lets him breathe, does not crowd him or press his weight even though the urgent, selfish part of him wants to grind down onto Will, into Will, wants to pierce him and see him shake for an entirely different reason.

He kisses Will, weak with relief when Will allows it, curls his fingers in Hannibal's hair and tugs. It's longer, now, though not nearly as wild as Will's, and slides between Will's hands easily. Will's thighs pull up, tighten around his hips, and Hannibal cannot help the desperate growl that escapes him, as he kisses Will's tense jaw, down his flexing neck. He pulls back, sliding his hands to Will's hips, and kisses over his thunderous heart.

Will's hands tighten, abruptly. "No," he says, soft with panic. "No, don't -." He stops Hannibal before he can reach his stomach, yanks him upward as savagely as he'd tugged at the collar and rope. Hannibal lets himself be pulled, be manhandled, as Will brings their foreheads together and presses harshly. He can smell tears in Will's eyes, sweat on his skin, the overly-sweet stain of anxiety coursing through him. "Don't."

"It's alright, Will," Hannibal breathes, and kisses his other shoulder, the one injured by Jack. Poor Will – his back bears the weight of everything, of time and manipulation and the harsh abuse of lead and shattered bone. He rears up, leans back, and finds the bottle of oil. He presses it into Will's hands. "Would you like to do this part yourself?"

Will swallows harshly, and takes the bottle. Hannibal kneels back, touching below his knees as he wets his fingers. The slick sound of flesh parting is one Hannibal knows well, he closes his eyes and tries to imagine Will's face, since he cannot see him well in the darkness. Imagines Will's lashes, low, his cheeks pink, mouth slack as he spreads himself open.

Will lets out a rough, quiet sound, half a moan, shaken, as he parts his flesh. His thighs tense up, heels digging into Hannibal's calf muscles, his breath hitching as he presses deep and Hannibal hears his other hand, touching his cock, the sounds of his wet hands obscenely loud in the otherwise quiet room. He aches to touch Will, wants to kiss him and map his hands over Will's strong body, wants to memorize every plane of him, every dip of muscle and jut of bone.

Will pulls his fingers out, flattens them on Hannibal's thigh, and spreads his legs. "Are you ready, darling?" Hannibal asks, as Will reaches for him and wraps a hand around the back of his neck.

Will doesn't answer. Just lifts his hips, granting silent permission.

Hannibal sighs, nuzzles Will's shoulder, and takes a hold of his cock. He grabs the bottle of oil, slicking himself up, and pushes forward, until his cockhead catches on the slick, tight ring of muscle. He pushes in and Will gasps, going tense all over, nails digging in and free hand flying to Hannibal's chest.

"F- _fuck_ ," he hisses, snapping his jaws together just shy of Hannibal's cheek. Hannibal growls, plants his hands to the bed on either side of Will, pushing in further, pushing deeper. Will's body recoils from him, clenches down in tight spasm, trying to force him back out. He groans, deep in his chest, as Hannibal sheaths himself fully, until his hips touch the back of Will's trembling thighs.

Will's breath is coming fast and shallow, bordering on hyperventilation. He rears up, sinks his teeth into Hannibal's neck, bites down hard enough that it hurts, that it threatens breaking skin. He might rip Hannibal's throat out if pushed too far, but Hannibal is too starved for him to pull out, to pull back. He waits, in trembling stasis, as Will's hands claw down his back, tug at the raised, welted border of the Verger seal on his spine, and tightens his thighs.

"I'm here, Will," he murmurs, cheek to Will's hair. He doesn't know if it reassures Will, or worsens the panic. Will's body clenches up, chest heaving, sweating like a stallion that's been run into the ground. Will claws at him, painful, nails digging to raise red lines, to shed blood, and Hannibal is slick too, slick with sweat and need as indecision, worry, freezes him in place.

Will grunts, unsheathes his teeth, and growls; "Move."

Hannibal obeys, gently rocking his hips, trembling at the sweet softness of Will's clinging thighs, the velvet heat of him on the inside. He's burning hot, raw, muscles clamping down like he wants to suffocate Hannibal inside him. Hannibal lowers his head, forehead to Will's neck, breathes out harshly and clenches his fingers in the bedspread, fighting his own desire to claw, to bruise. He wants his marks on Will, wants them to both be bruised and bloody in shared ownership of each other.

He'd forgotten what exquisite pleasure it was to be inside someone, to feel them weak and trembling in his arms – but this isn’t right. Will has gone soft, his flaccid cock pressed tight between their stomachs, and Hannibal sighs, pulling back.

"What are you doing?" Will demands. His legs wrap around Hannibal tightly, stopping him from pulling out.

"Will," Hannibal says, and shakes his head. "This isn't what you want."

Will snarls, snaps his teeth together with a sharp click. "Stop pretending you know what I want," he says.

"Will -."

" _Hannibal_ ," Will growls, interrupting him, rude as ever. Yet, Hannibal cannot help smiling, though it's weak. "Fuck me."

"No," Hannibal says, sighing. He presses his hands to Will's thighs, feels them tense up, rejecting him, and he pulls out all the way, swallowing harshly when his cock is robbed of the feeling of Will's warm, tight body. "I won't let you make me into that kind of monster."

A sound escapes Will, feral and outraged. He pushes himself upright, pulls from Hannibal's body and off the side of his bed. "Fine," he snaps, and Hannibal can't look at him, can't watch him emerge into the moonlight as he grabs his clothes. "Have it your way."

He leaves the room, the door not even closing all the way. Hannibal growls, sits, and takes the pillow Will had touched, laying it across his lap. He wills way his arousal, exercises that strict control over his body he has always prided himself on. The pillow smells like Will, like his shampoo, his sweat. He presses it to his nose, closes his eyes, and sighs again.

 

 

Will disappears for a week, this time, and Hannibal is beside himself with worry. It's the longest Will has ever left him for – he didn't take the car, didn't even appear to have taken a change of clothes with him. He tries to remain calm, wanders into the market on the third day and Katherine smiles at him, sells him another loaf of bread even though they haven't even touched the last one, and mentions off-handedly that she hasn't seen Will – 'Mark' – in a while.

"I think I gave him my stomach bug," Hannibal replies weakly. "He's been bedridden for days now."

"Oh! Well, you should visit the pharmacy. There is a strange bug going around but they have medicine there, they might be able to help."

Hannibal nods, and thanks her, but his stomach is too tense to deal with more interaction. He sequesters himself in their house and wonders, not for the first time, when he became the one consigned to the homestead. Will has made jokes about them being man and wife before, but his tone always suggested that Will was the one playing housewife, collecting groceries and submitting to brief liaisons in their bed before retiring to his own.

But in this case, Hannibal feels confined. Caged, robbed of his freedom and his mind rebels against the idea. He will not leave, would not chance any small twist of fate that meant he was not home when Will returned. The fish has swum upstream, rejecting his lure, his hook, and Hannibal thought they'd been making progress, he'd thought -.

But Will is unpredictable. He always has been, it's one of the things Hannibal adores about him; his wildness, his plain rejection of anything routine and mundane. He swims and curls around Hannibal's thoughts, suffocating, branding him, and Hannibal is the one champing at the bit now, tugging at the reins.

He meant what he said; a year with Will would be worth a thousand without him. This is the worst kind of torture – worse than his time in Alana's cell, worse than the solitude when Will was in prison. Worse than his nights with Bedelia, and his cast-iron loneliness between Will's forgiveness in the catacombs and the moment he pushed the saw to Will's head.

On the morning of the eighth day, Hannibal stirs as the bedroom door opens. His breath catches and he sits up, eyes widening at the sight of Will. He's disheveled, hair greasy and flat to his face, skin stained with dried mud and blood – not enough to denote him injured, not enough for murder, but like he's spent the entire week in the woods, sleeping on rocks and rough trees, cradled in their roots. His scent is sharp with old sweat, with tree sap, and Hannibal sucks in a breath as Will pulls to a halt, just past the threshold of the door.

His face is pale from the cold, cheeks flushing in little spots of heat as his body overcompensates for the warmth in Hannibal's room. He bites his lower lip, trembles, and swipes a hand through his messy hair, pushing it back from his face to reveal the scar on his forehead.

"Will," Hannibal breathes, and Will's eyes snap up, lock with his.

Will clears his throat, steps in, and closes the door behind him.

He pulls his shirt over his head, kicks off his shoes and tosses it all to one side. His chest is grazed, bearing lines from stray branches and unforgiving brush, pale. He pulls at his belt, tugs it free, and lets it drop, pushes his jeans down his legs and steps out of them and toes off his socks.

Hannibal sighs inwardly, sure that Will means to be silent, to grab the oil and roll Hannibal onto his side and fuck him just like that. He will leave, after, leave Hannibal to his silence, to his thoughts. After eight days, Hannibal's skin feels too tight, he's starving for Will.

He would let Will, too, of course he would. He watches, tense, as Will climbs underneath the sheets beside him, shivering, goose bumps breaking out down his neck and arms. He braces himself against Hannibal, cheek to his shoulder, and he's freezing to the touch. Hannibal's fingers curl, aching to pet him, to warm him under Hannibal's weight.

Will sighs. He doesn't reach for the bottle of oil on the bedside table. Doesn't move. He rubs his cheek over Hannibal's clothed shoulder, his wild hair tickling Hannibal's jaw.

Hannibal breathes out, confesses; "I missed you."

He feels Will smile, feels the bulge of his cheek. "I missed you too," he replies. "Desperately."

"Where did you go?"

"Nowhere," Will replies, sighing again. "I thought about running away, of just…picking a direction and going, until I couldn't feel your hands on me anymore. But it didn't matter how far I ran, how cold I got, you were always there, chasing me."

Hannibal closes his eyes, turns his head away.

"I don't want you to feel like you have to run from me, Will," he murmurs. "But I understand."

"Do you?" Will asks, bitter and soft.

"The wounds you have dealt me are not visible to the naked eye," Hannibal says. Will hums, one hand lifting and sliding along the scar on Hannibal's wrist. "Every time you look in the mirror, every time you change your clothes, you see what I've done to you. Scars and marks I can never erase, no matter how much I want to."

Will lets out a sound at that, considering and soft. "You want to erase them?" he asks.

"Erase their pain, yes."

Will lifts his head, and Hannibal looks at him to see him frowning. "But that's…" He sucks in breath, brow creasing. "That means erasing part of us. Part of our universe."

Hannibal smiles. "How many cities were built on the ruins of past ones?" he asks. "On graveyards, and barren ground?"

Will tilts his head, looks into Hannibal's eyes, drops to his mouth, then back up. His fingers curl, so gentle, around Hannibal's wrist.

"Restraining me isn't what will heal you," Hannibal says. He leans in and Will lets him, doesn't flinch, doesn't fight as their foreheads touch. "But hurting me, doing even a fraction of the harm I did to you – that, I think, is where you believe your power lies. And I confess my weakness, for you're the only one who can hurt me like you do."

Will swallows, and licks his lips.

"Do you want to hurt me, Will?"

"I don't know," Will breathes, but he's lying. Hannibal can see it in his eyes.

He smiles, and chances a kiss, finds Will's mouth soft and yielding, his lips chapped from so long in the wild. "Stay here," he says, and rises. Will gives a soft whine of protest, but lets him go. Hannibal goes to the kitchen and takes out one of Will's filleting knives. He returns to the bedroom and Will's eyes flash, seeing it. He goes tense all over, knees pulled up, ready to bolt.

Hannibal sets the knife down on the bedside table, beside the bottle of oil, and takes off his shirt. "Where?" he asks.

Will tilts his head, picks up the knife like Hannibal will make a grab for it if he moves too slow. He presses his lips together, digs his heels to the bed, and nods to the space beside him.

"On your stomach," he says.

Hannibal nods, and pushes his pajama pants down and off him, so he's only in his underwear, like Will. He circles the bed, pulls the sheets back, and settles on his belly, his arms folded underneath his head.

Will mounts him immediately, like he's scared if he waits too long, Hannibal's jaws will snap, the trap will spring and spear him in place and he'll bleed out under Hannibal's watchful eyes. Will's knife is sharp, gleaming in the sunlight, and Hannibal closes his eyes and turns his head, nose to his knuckles, as the cold length of it presses flat to the base of his neck.

"You trust me not to go too far," Will breathes, heavy with realization, with understanding. Hannibal forces his muscles lax as Will's free hand drags down his spine and settles on the Verger mark. "I could kill you, right now, before you could move."

"I know," Hannibal says.

Will growls, and Hannibal hisses, tensing as the knife turns, biting into his flesh. Will cuts down in one sharp line, and the cut itself doesn't hurt, but the hot sting of his blood, welling up and spilling, brings with it a burn all its own. He cuts Hannibal's back, from the tip of the brand, angled, and stops at his spine. Again, upward, a shorter mark, then one down.

Hannibal smiles, recognizing the pattern. A 'W', cross-hatched over Mason's brand.

Will is not savage. His cuts are clean and controlled, just as Hannibal taught him. He aims to scar, aims to wound, but does not aim to destroy. His breathing is heavy, loud, his thighs tense where they bracket Hannibal's hips.

He rocks, and Hannibal growls as he feels Will's erection press behind his clothes.

Will pushes his hand up, settles over Hannibal's nape to keep him still, and growls, "Give me your arm."

Hannibal pulls his arms free, back stinging, blood pooled up and dripping down the dip of his spine, down his flanks. It aches terribly, sharp bites of pain that Hannibal forces himself to feel. He will not retreat. The place in his mind palace that is Will's, the floor of it, runs red and black; blood and oil.

Will takes his wrist, pins it to his back and Hannibal's fingers curl, his blood slick on his skin. Will settles the knife across the scars Matthew Brown left. He doesn't cut deep, here, too-aware of the arteries and how easily he could do too much damage. Instead, his knife digs it at the tip, zigs and zags in a little snake of pressure, opening Hannibal's flesh, parting his skin, until Hannibal knows the original mark will be unrecognizable beneath.

Will is trembling, and he tightens his hand on Hannibal's wrist, jerks it up until his shoulder aches in sharp protest. Still, Hannibal doesn't move, doesn't let himself snarl. Will sobs, bowing forward, and kisses Hannibal's hair.

His eyes open, as Will throws the knife away, and it lands on the floor in a sharp clatter.

"I don't want this," he says. "I don't want to hurt you."

Hannibal is silent, but Will doesn't say anything else. Time stretches on, silence, silence, and then Hannibal turns his head and meets Will's eyes.

"Is it so hard to believe I feel the same?"

Will sobs again, lets out a ragged whimper, and lifts up from Hannibal's back, rolls him, and then Hannibal does hiss, tender skin rubbing against the sheets. Will's hands are wet with blood when he cups Hannibal's face and kisses him, the scent of iron and salt spreading through the room.

"Do you forgive me?" Will whispers. "Can you?"

"Of course, mylimasis," Hannibal replies, ardent and loving. He wraps his hand in Will's hair, blood smearing on his neck and jaw, and pulls him into a kiss. "There is nothing to forgive."

 

 

The night is dark, the fire warm and burning brightly in their living room. Hannibal goes to Will after their meal, glasses of wine in hand, and offers Will his. Will takes it, fingers trembling, and drinks. Hannibal has a bandage around his wrist, another patchwork of gauze on his back, making his shirt bulge and catch on it.

Will eyes him, and shakes his head when Hannibal makes to sit on the other couch. He sits forward, and sets his glass down.

"Sit with me?" he whispers.

Hannibal blinks at him, but smiles, and settles at Will's side. They're still only dressed in underwear, that strange dichotomy of bared skin and intimacy stretched this between them.

Will smiles, and takes Hannibal's glass from him, before he breathes out, shifts, and turns, straddling Hannibal's lap.

"Kiss me," he says, and Hannibal lifts his chin, eager to obey. Will leans into him, cups his face and kisses him deeply, lips parted, tongue searching. He tastes like the wine, it settles heavy on his tongue and Hannibal feels drunk on it, his entire being lighting up and buzzing under Will's touch. Hannibal touches his back, slow, letting Will have the opportunity to deny him, but Will doesn't deny him. He shivers, pressing closer, and bites Hannibal's lower lip gently as Hannibal's hands splay out along his spine.

His flesh is warm, pink in the fire. He lifts his eyes to somewhere over Hannibal's shoulder, and something dark stirs in them, makes them widen, makes his fingers curl, makes him let out a soft, ragged sound.

"Your shadow…" he says, weakly.

Hannibal pulls him closer, brushes his nose along Will's jaw. "Don't look at it," he says. Will trembles, bows his head, kisses, lightly, at Hannibal's cheek. "I'm here. Flesh and blood, just as you are."

Will nods, licks his lips, licks Hannibal's neck. "Show me?" he asks. Hannibal blinks, brow creasing, unsure what Will might mean. Will's hands drag down, settle gently on Hannibal's belly, and then slip lower, below the band of his underwear. He lifts up, just an inch, and pushes the clothing down to bare Hannibal's cock. "I want you to show me. Make me feel it."

His hand moves, shoving his own underwear down and Hannibal gasps as Will slides closer, angles them, so Hannibal's hardening cock presses between his legs. His thighs tighten, lift, and Hannibal shrinks back, his wounds stinging as Will sighs, closes his eyes, rests their foreheads together.

"Will," he says, a meek protest, "let me get the oil, I -."

"No," Will replies, shaking his head. He takes Hannibal's cock in a gentle grip, strokes him, once, and Hannibal is helpless, powerless, to resist Will's touch. "It's okay." He's smiling, and when he presses Hannibal's cock to his hole, Hannibal's breath leaves him, for Will is slick, and open already. "It's okay."

He trembles, sinks down, and moans as Hannibal penetrates him. His fingers curl in Hannibal's shoulder, his eyes tightly shut, jaw clenched. His body parts for Hannibal, sweet and wet and so, so _warm_ , and Hannibal's hands fly to his hips, help him move, calms the tremor in his thighs as Will sighs, and sinks, until he's fully seated on Hannibal's lap.

Hannibal searches his face, looking for any panic, any flare of anxiety or dark shadow of anger. But he sees nothing of the sort – he sees what he imagined of Will, his mouth going abruptly slack, his lashes fluttering as he opens his eyes, meets Hannibal's.

"Will," he murmurs, weakly. He cups Will's nape, squeezing gently, and Will shivers, lips parting, tongue snaking out to wet them.

"I -." Will's eyes flash, he looks up, trembling when he looks at their shadows cast on the wall and Hannibal can't, _can't_ lose him now.

He tugs on Will's hair, brings them back together. "Look at me," he says, firm and soft. Will's eyes are all black, now, shining like an oil spill, and he blushes, and tightens up around Hannibal, instinctively fighting him. "Flesh and blood, remember?"

Will gasps, and nods, wincing.

"Not shadow," Hannibal continues. He drags his knuckles, gently, down Will's chest. "Not steel." Over the scar on his stomach, and Will flinches, tries to pull back. Though he shakes, Hannibal smells no fear on him – there is something sharp in Will's scent, something grim and determined and wanting. Hannibal's back burns, dragging against the couch as Will presses close to him, rocks his hips in a slow grind.

Will growls, rakes his nails through Hannibal's hair and forces his head back, lowers his mouth to bite at Hannibal's bared throat. He sucks, brutally, and Hannibal feels flesh break and yield, feels blood blooming to the surface under Will's kiss. He will be marked here, in a way Will likes – a way he ravenously covets.

His hand on Will's hip tightens, slides to his thigh to help him move.

Will gasps, and rocks his hips again, more earnest this time, and Hannibal takes his hand from Will's hair to wrap around his cock, relieved to find Will is hard, this time, leaking onto Hannibal's belly. Will snarls, growls, grinds, selfishly seeking pleasure, and the spasms of his muscles, the roll of his body, do nothing but threaten Hannibal with madness.

He wraps his arm around Will's back, cradles him close, touching him with firm, assured strokes as Will greedily bites him, marks him, fucks himself on Hannibal's cock.

"That's it, darling," Hannibal purrs, voice hoarse from Will's abuse. "Use me."

Will whimpers, breaking his kiss, digs his teeth into Hannibal's bare shoulder. " _Hannibal_ ," he moans, weak at the neck, and Hannibal wants to touch him there, to lend his strength. Wants to sooth his trembling thighs, his clenching stomach. He resists, instead keeping his attention on the hard, urgent need of Will as Will tightens, digs his nails, moans, weakly, against Hannibal's skin.

"What do you need, darling?" Hannibal breathes. He can taste Will's arousal, feel it building as Will moves for him, tightens up and clenches so much Hannibal feels like he's suffocating. His cock is leaking heavily onto Hannibal's fingers, twitching whenever he thumbs at the head, drags through the slit. Will sags against him, growling. "Tell me."

Will heaves up, drags his claws along Hannibal's neck, and meets his eyes. "Kiss me," he demands, and Hannibal smiles, puts his free hand in Will's hair and tugs, gently, until their lips meet. Will kisses brashly, brazen, his hands suddenly flying to the back of the couch as he goes utterly, utterly still.

Then, with a sated moan, he comes, muscles fluttering around Hannibal's cock, spilling thick and hot over his hand and stomach. Hannibal shivers, flushing with heat, as Will goes lax in his arms. He's smiling, wide and sated, lashes low over his black eyes, and hums with pleasure. His hips cease their rolling, merely settling in place, and he tips his head back, blinking to the ceiling, and straightens, rubbing a hand through his hair.

Hannibal lets go of his cock, not wanting to overstimulate, and brings his fingers to his lips to lick clean. The taste of Will is something he has been too-long denied. Will shivers, looks at him, watches him do it, the blush on his cheeks darkening as Hannibal's fingers slip into his mouth.

"I think," he murmurs, sounding dazed, "this is what it feels like."

Hannibal settles his hand on Will's hip, looks up.

Will's head tilts. "Antidote," he says. He sucks in a breath, drags his hand over the side of his neck, and Hannibal jerks as Will's body tenses up around him, unable to stop the low snarl that rumbles in his chest, makes him show his teeth. He tries to swallow it immediately, but Will sees him. Will sees, and hears it.

Will is shaking, his fingers gentle as he smooths them along Hannibal's chest. He leans forward, closes his eyes, and licks tentatively into his mouth. Hannibal's lips part, sharing the taste of Will, and it seems to ignite something in him, for he starts moving again, forces his muscles as tight as possible, burning. His skin, shining and slick with sweat, slides hotly beneath Hannibal's hands. He is that fallen star again, that avenging angel, and shudders in Hannibal's arms.

He trembles, arching, his eyes closed and Hannibal aches, needs to see his eyes. "Will," he begs, cupping Will's cheek. "Darling, look at me. Please?"

Will's lashes flutter, and his eyes open. He meets Hannibal's, dark, flaring with black. He touches Hannibal's chest. "I like this feeling," he says, lips twitching into a small, feral smile. His eyes dip, land on Hannibal's heaving chest, red now; the mark on his neck; the smear of Will's seed on his belly. "Look how you shake for me." He takes Hannibal's hand from his cheek, curls his fingers around, kisses his knuckles and flattens his hand on Hannibal's wrist. It's the one he didn't hurt. "Your heart, rushing." He smiles. "I feel powerful."

"That's all I've ever wanted," Hannibal says, breathless.

Will hums, sighs, and leans forward again, sinks his hips down, tightens, rolls forward as Hannibal's hands clench on his hips, helping him move. He leans in, brushes lips feather-light across Hannibal's forehead, and whispers; "Show me."

Hannibal is powerless. He growls, shuddering, as he forces Will's hips down and sinks as deep as he can. His stomach tenses, heart seizing in his chest, and he comes when Will kisses him, drinking down his sated moan as he empties himself into Will. Just like food, just like wine, Will takes his offering, starved to the bone for Hannibal's affection and his love.

Will pulls back when Hannibal cannot breathe. He sighs, lifts his eyes, and presses his lips together.

Hannibal clings to him, pets through his hair. "Don't look at it."

"I have to," Will replies. He doesn't sound afraid, doesn't tense. His muscles are smooth and pliant under Hannibal's hand, the sweaty curl of his hair nestled tight between his fingers. He clenches up, testing, and Hannibal shivers as he slides out of Will, a slick trail of seed following. Will moans, correcting their clothes, and settles back into place on Hannibal's lap.

He rests his cheek on Hannibal's shoulder, and sighs. "It's not going anywhere," he says quietly, absently drawing patterns on Hannibal's chest. "Men of flesh and blood cast shadows like everything else does. If you didn't, you wouldn't be here."

Hannibal swallows. "Then I can only spend the rest of my life trying to make amends for its influence."

Will shakes his head, straightening. "You're not understanding what I'm saying," he says, sharply, through his eyes shine with affection. He cups Hannibal's cheek, smears his thumb through the lingering stain of pink he left on Hannibal's jaw. "That shadow is a part of you, Hannibal, sewn to your feet. This is the universe we have, and it's the one I want to keep." His head tilts. "I've never denied your nature."

"No," Hannibal replies, "you haven't."

"So I cannot deny your influence."

He swallows. "Do you want to?"

Will sighs, his lips thinning, and he moves off of Hannibal's lap, wincing at his body protests the ache of sore muscles being forced to move. Hannibal knows that ache well, and yet the one in his chest is settled – pulses, warmly, when Will presses his knees over Hannibal's thigh and rests his cheek on his shoulder.

"That's a level of escapism I've never been comfortable with," he says airily, like he's talking only to himself. "And it's not sustainable. I can't pretend not to know what you are, can't pretend that I don't love you for it. Because of it, in spite of it." He huffs a laugh. "I'm the bride of Frankenstein's monster."

Hannibal frowns, humming.

Says, carefully; "The loss of his bride drove that creature to pure rage."

Will sighs. "You misunderstand me, again," he says, and lifts his head, smiling. "He vowed to love her, to treasure her. Said he would take her to America, far away from the whims and grievances of men, that she would want for nothing with his love, ugly through he was."

Hannibal's head tilts.

"I think she would have loved him, given the chance. Once she recovered from her wounds, from the sheer otherness of waking in a world that was no longer her own."

Hannibal blinks, considering this, and turns his eyes on the fire. He wraps a hand around Will's thigh, gently, his thumb stroking over the sharp edge of muscle. Will does not tense, under him, doesn't tremble.

"Hannibal," Will says, and Hannibal looks to him. "Will you do something for me?"

"Anything, darling."

Will sighs. "Will you smile?"

Hannibal blinks, his eyes widening. "Have I not been?" he asks, genuinely curious, for all the times he noticed Will's fake one, it never occurred to him that his own might have been plastic, just as false.

Will presses his lips together. "Please?"

Hannibal looks at him, lifts his eyes to Will's sweaty hair. He reaches, white bandage around his wrist standing out starkly, and brushes Will's curls from his face. Touches, lingering, down the side of his head, under his ear. Will shivers, fingers flexing on Hannibal's chest, looks at him earnestly, desperately, and Hannibal thinks of the last time Will looked at him like that, when they were in Hannibal's kitchen, all those years ago, before Will earned the knife in his belly and Abigail's blood on his hands.

But that memory holds heartache, and does not make him smile.

He thinks of Will, in the bars of Chilton's holding cage, sobbing and shuddering and begging for help, for answers. Thinks this was the beginning of Will's deception – or even before that, "Hello Will", "Hello, Doctor Lecter", the icy stare of Will's creature when it drew first breath.

That memory brings with it pride, and his lips twitch.

Will swallows, as Hannibal cups his neck.

He thinks of Will in the galleria, grazed and bruised from falling off a train. Remembers Will's smile then, the sweet, simple joy in his scent, for he had been happy to see Hannibal, he cannot deny that. Before he drew his knife, before Chiyoh put a bullet in his shoulder. Hannibal's mind palace is full of paintings and statues of Will looking just like that.

He smiles. Wide, joyous, and Will's breath leaves him in a soft, ragged exhale. He flexes beneath Hannibal's hands, turns his head and lets his cheek rest against the bandages around Hannibal's wrist, and it doesn't hurt, now. Doesn't sting. Will's touch is healing.

He brings Will forward, into a kiss, and they don't move until the fire dies down.

 

 

Trauma and healing are not linear things. Hannibal knows that. He must still be careful of moving too swiftly when it's just him and Will. When they hunt, there is an outlet for his cruelty, for his rage, and Will lets him prowl, then. Lets him cut and slice and dig his fingers through organs and flesh and watches, ragged, panting, his eyes bright with adoration. Hannibal considers Frankenstein's monster and his bride, and wonders if, in another universe, they are both as happy as Will and Hannibal are.

Will doesn't sleep on the couch anymore, but sometimes he still quakes with nightmares. The difference, this time, is when Hannibal turns on the light, he settles, calms, reaffirms that Hannibal is merely flesh and blood, not a monster in his mind. He has no horns, no black skin. The oil recedes, and the water is clear, and when Hannibal's back and wrist are healed, Will takes him to bed, spreads his thighs and moves against him and lets Hannibal kiss him, lets him touch his hair, his neck, his shoulders, as Will pierces him and fills him, as Will marks his neck and sucks bruises to his chest.

Will puts the knife away. Puts the box away. Hannibal never sees it again.

He lets Hannibal mount him again, a month past, when the bodies pile too high and they must move on. He slides against Hannibal in the backseat of their stolen car, the air too close, too warm, windows fogged, suspension creaking in protest. The lights of the dashboard make Will glow, and shimmer, a beast of conquest and power as he digs his nails into Hannibal's neck and bites his jaw when he comes over Hannibal's stomach. Rocks, rocks again, until Hannibal's orgasm takes him under into Will's tides.

 

 

They find a cottage in Spain for rent, pay for three months in advance, and settle there. The air is warmer, further South, winter denied her claim for a few more weeks. Will darkens in the sun, bares his flesh and his scars for Hannibal to touch, to kiss. When Hannibal presses a gentle mouth between his thighs, Will winces. When Will tries to take Hannibal into his mouth, he gags, and fumbles, raw at the spine and hackles up. They don't spend that night together, and Hannibal is awake when Will comes home, sloppy and drunk, and begs forgiveness of Hannibal's hands, works his fingers under Hannibal's clothes and strokes him until they're both shaking.

There is a steam near this cottage, located and chosen by design so that when Will wants to escape, he doesn't have to go far. He doesn't leave for as long, this time. Turns almost trusting, almost sweet, when Hannibal kisses his shoulder or touches his waist with a gentle hand.

Winter comes, and with the lengthening dark hours, so do Will's nightmares. "It was a winter just like this," he breathes, clinging to Hannibal as Hannibal purrs and pets him, trying to soothe his tremors. "When we met. It was so cold, do you remember?"

"I do, mylimasis," Hannibal replies, and kisses Will's sweaty hair. "I'll never forget any of it." He lulls Will back to sleep, cradles him, worshipful with his hands on Will's back. Will sighs against him, and when he wakes, he bites, tugs Hannibal over him, spreads his legs and demands Hannibal wipe him clean again.

 

 

"Hannibal?" Will murmurs, a glass of wine in hand, his eyes dark. It's been a year since they moved to Spain. It's been another lifetime.

"Yes, darling?"

"Your frown lines are fading."

Hannibal huffs. "Forgive me, Will. I'm happy."

Will clears his throat, lifts his chin, his lashes low. He drinks. "Yeah," he replies. "So am I."

 

 

Will doesn't leave the next day. Nor the next. On the third, he packs up his fishing gear and greets Hannibal with a smile, a soft kiss to his shoulder.

"Gotta get them before they disappear upriver," he says, "and the opportunity is lost."

Hannibal understands that sentiment intimately. He smiles, and cups Will's face, pleased when Will doesn't flinch from him. "Would you like some company?"

Will's eyes flash, widen with mirth. He grins, really smiles, and it's an infectious expression. "Do you even know how to fish?" he asks lowly, glowing with pleasure that Hannibal would even offer. Hannibal wonders if, perhaps, Will waited for him longer than he had to all those times he ran away, if he expected Hannibal to ever emerge from the trees, to hunt him and chase him and demand he return home.

"I would like to learn," Hannibal says, tilting his head, He thumbs over Will's jaw, over his cheek, into the dip of his scar from Dolarhyde's knife. "If you're willing to teach me."

Will smiles, softer now, and nods, turning his head and nuzzling Hannibal's palm. "Alright," he murmurs. "Dress warmly, and meet me at the car."

Hannibal hesitates, and Will tilts his head. "Yes?"

"May I kiss you?"

Will's shoulders roll, his eyes flash, the creature in his chest stretching and purring and pressing up close to Hannibal's own monster. He lifts his chin, cups Hannibal's jaw, and draws him close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *curls up with endless amounts of fluffy fic* catch y'all in the next disaster!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Natural](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17636483) by [teacupsandtime](https://archiveofourown.org/users/teacupsandtime/pseuds/teacupsandtime)




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